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If she got pregnant he’d have to kill her. He couldn’t afford to let anything make him appear vulnerable.
But that wasn’t going to happen. He had condoms in his backpack. Unfortunately, everything had happened too quickly for him to get to them…. He’d been meaning to wait until they reached a hotel, but whether he wanted to admit it or not, he’d been waiting for this moment since he’d seen another guy straddling her in the alley in Plymouth.
And it had only been a taste. Fast and hard and good, but it was going to be even better once he found a hotel. He had three days before he had to meet his man in Marseille, and he knew just how he planned to spend those days. Fucking his brains out with Mary Isobel Curwen.
She had perfect breasts. He’d known early on she was sensitive about them, even more than she was about her red hair and her curvy butt. Maybe if she’d worn a bra he could have waited until they got to a hotel room.
But in the end he’d gone with his instincts and his appetites. And she was now draped over him in a boneless little bundle of satisfaction, thinking she’d found her true love.
He still wasn’t sure of the least painful way to get rid of her. Simply disappear? Tell her he was going back to the imaginary Marie-Claire? Pick a fight with her? That had worked this time, to get between her legs, but in general she wasn’t easily riled. She loved him, which made her both tolerant and an idiot. He was a very dangerous man, though he went to great lengths to hide it. She was smart enough to have picked up on it if she’d used her brain.
But he’d done everything he could to keep her from doing just that. He’d kept her interested, aroused, frustrated for just long enough, and now he’d sealed the deal. She was his, body and soul
, for as long as he needed her that way. When he was through, she’d be older and wiser. And he’d be long gone.
He wanted her again. Pulling out at the last minute had been the smart thing to do, and it had nearly killed him. When he got inside her again he was going to stay there a good long time. Until he’d had enough of her.
He just hoped three days would do it.
8
He’d left. Mary couldn’t quite believe it. She’d crawled out of the rumpled bed a few hours ago, wrapping a sheet around her, and curled up next to the window, watching out over the rain-swept Marseille streets. It had been raining for three days now, and none of it had mattered. They’d spent those three days in bed, the first night at a small inn, the second two in this cheap hotel in one of the worst parts of the city.
She hadn’t even looked at it when he brought her here. She’d simply followed him into the room, onto the bed, moving in the dark, her body caught up with his, and it wasn’t until she woke up, late this afternoon, that she noticed just how run-down and dirty the place was.
She glanced over at the small, torn-up bed, at the remaining sheet. It was a badly laundered gray, and she shuddered, yanking the other sheet off her body and heading for the tiny bathroom, amazed that there was one en suite in this slum. The towels weren’t any better than the grimy sheets. She used the rough soap on her body, her hair, and then dried herself with some of her clean clothes rather than touch the towels provided. And then she dressed and headed back to the window, to watch as the wet streets grew dark, watch and wait for a man who wasn’t coming back.
She had no reason to believe that. He’d been the perfect lover, tender, sweet, so intent on pleasing her that he’d barely let her touch him. It had been strange, wonderful, dizzying, and she’d felt drugged with it, with him, with the sex and the darkness and the pleasure.
Drugged… She shook herself. Where was he? Strange, paranoid feelings were washing over her, ridiculous thoughts that she couldn’t shake. She couldn’t remember anything from the last few days, just flashes of sensation. Had she eaten? Had she used the bathroom? Had they talked?
She yanked up her sleeves, half expecting to see needle tracks on her arms. Her head was clearing, and she pushed open the window, letting some of the cold wet air in. Where was he? And what in God’s name had happened?
Nothing of his remained in the room. There was no trace of him, though her things were intact. Including the small amount of money that needed to last, the credit cards and traveler’s checks. Why had he disappeared?
He loved her. She’d believed him when he said it, but now a thousand doubts were beating at her brain. Why would he turn from friend to lover and then disappear? They’d spent more than two weeks together, traveling the back roads of France. She knew everything about him, just as he knew everything about her. And then, suddenly, he was gone.
She couldn’t just sit there. She shoved her clothes into her backpack, pulled on a sweater and headed out to the lobby of the hotel. Her French had improved exponentially during the time she’d been in the country, and she had no trouble making the old woman behind the desk understand her.
“He paid for two more nights,” she said, “and told me to tell you he had to go back to Paris. He was sorry.”
Mary just looked at her, uncomprehending. “Did he say why? Leave an address or a phone number?”
The concierge shook her head. “Monsieur Brown left nothing but cash for the room.” She eyed Mary’s backpack. “Are you leaving early? There are no refunds.”
“Monsieur Brown?” He’d given a false name. Had he given her one, as well?
“We don’t want any trouble here,” the woman said. “Stay or go, it’s up to you. But your boyfriend’s left, and he went off with a group of men. Maybe you should just go back to America and forget about him.”
That wasn’t about to happen. At the very least, she needed some answers. “What kind of men? Do you have any idea where they went?”
The innkeeper, not much cleaner than her rooms, scratched the side of her face. “Bad men,” she said finally. “Smugglers, terrorists. I’ve seen them around before, and you don’t want to have anything to do with them. The police leave them alone, and you should, too. If your boyfriend is mixed up with the likes of them you don’t want to be anywhere near him.”
“Terrorists?”
“I don’t want any trouble here. I think you should leave.”
“Mr. Brown paid for two more nights and you don’t give refunds.”
