Once in Paris (3 page)

“You stop calling me names,” she said haughtily. “I don't have an evil mind.”

“Ha!”

She put the card in the pocket of her dress and smiled at him. “You must be feeling better,
you're growling again. Now, I'm really leaving.”

“It's just as well if all you have to offer me are insults.”

She glared at him from the door. “Would you like me to go back to Chez Georges and send that woman with the thick lipstick up here to visit your wallet? I'll bet she'd know what to do when she got your pants off.”

“Why, you libertine,” he accused softly.

“And one of these days, I'll learn what to do, too, then you just look out.”

“Brianne.”

She turned with the door open. “What?”

His expression was very solemn. “Be careful about tutors for that particular skill. Be very careful.”

She tossed back her hair. “Oh, you don't need to worry. I already have someone in mind.”

“Really? Who?” he asked curtly.

She stepped out the door and stuck her head around it. “You, when you've had enough time to get over your grief,” she said gently. “I think you'll be worth waiting for.”

And while he was getting over that shock, she closed the door and left him.

 

Nassau was filled to bursting with tourists, strolling along the coastline from the new development at Coral Cay all the way into Nassau itself. Colorful jitneys darted through traffic, barely avoiding collisions with mopeds and cars and pedestrians. Brianne wandered through the market at Prince George Wharf, admiring the colorful straw purses and hats and dolls, but all she bought was a new hat. This one was made of crushable hemp with woven purple flowers on the brim. As she paid for it, she grinned at the lady who sold it to her, then moved along to watch an ocean liner from the United States being maneuvered out of the expanded bay. She was sure that she'd never get tired of watching the huge ships come in and out of the port city. Often, too, there were military ships in port, like the United States destroyer down at the end of the pier. Sailors filtered through the tourists on their way back to the ship, pausing to admire a pretty brunette boarding one of the glass-bottom tourist boats.

It was time for lunch, but she wasn't ready to go home. Not that Kurt's villa could be called anyone's home, except perhaps, her mother's and half brother's. The baby, Nicho
las, was a year old now and the apple of his mother's eye.

Brianne spent as little time at the villa as she could. Kurt had a business acquaintance staying with them, a Middle Eastern national who was very nearly Pierce's age. He was tall and slender and dark, with scars on one lean cheek that gave him a dangerous look. Brianne hadn't met him before, and now she wished she hadn't come home. Philippe Sabon was said to have a perverted obsession for young, innocent girls. He was some sort of rich state-official in an underdeveloped Arab nation. Sabon's mother was of Arab descent and his father, allegedly, was French but of Turkish ancestry. Very little was known about his shady background. He had millions, they said, but he'd spoken to Brianne of small, ragged beggars in the souks of Baghdad, as if he knew firsthand what their life was like. If it hadn't been for his smarmy reputation, Brianne might have enjoyed his company.

Kurt kept throwing Brianne and Sabon together at every opportunity. He was always nice, but there was something in the way Sabon looked at her that made her very nervous. He wanted Kurt to invest in some project in his
homeland of Qawi, which was sandwiched between several other small nations in the Persian Gulf. It was the only nation that had, until now, refused to consider developing its oil potential. Its ruler, an elderly sheikh, was old enough to remember European domination, and he wanted no more of it. Sabon had convinced him that the abject poverty in his nation was too widespread to ignore. Sabon owned his own island, Jameel, just offshore from Qawi. The name, he told Brianne, meant “beautiful” in Arabic.

Sabon had apparently talked Kurt into approaching an oil consortium for him, and even investing in this scheme to develop the poor country's oil wealth. As a high minister in that nation—and many said that he'd bought the office—Sabon now had power enough to put through any sort of land deal he chose. He controlled the country's mining rights. He had given Kurt a part interest in these, and Kurt had sent a firm of mining engineers to do a study on the oil-producing potential of the untouched land. The move had been a good one. The engineers found a wealth of untapped gas and petroleum under the hot sands. All that was needed was more money for equipment to exploit the resources, because the oil company
was only willing to provide a percentage of the capital required for drilling, and the national treasury of Qawi itself was apparently off-limits for such industry. Brianne thought that odd, but Kurt seemed not to care as long as he held title to half the mining potential of the country.

Kurt and Sabon had combined their own resources, and Kurt had coaxed an oil consortium to join in the venture. Kurt now had most of his fortune committed to the enterprise, which he expected to put him in the billionaire class. He had to keep Sabon in his hands, however, to realize that potential. Sabon had already inferred that another rich Middle Eastern friend would be happy to replace Kurt in the endeavor. Kurt had too much money tied up to risk backing out now. He'd noticed Sabon's fascination with Brianne. If dangling Brianne as bait would keep Sabon in his power, he was more than willing to provide it, with or without her permission.

There were stories about Sabon's perverse appetites circulating all over Nassau. The way he'd looked at Brianne when they were introduced made her feel as if he'd touched her body under her clothing. He found Brianne's coldness a challenge; she found
him
frightening.
There was something in his dark, intent eyes that intimidated her. He was dignified and courteous to a fault; he was charming. But there was something about him that belied his reputation, and Brianne couldn't think what it was. He was like an iceberg in the sense that most of his character was carefully hidden behind a shield of reserve. People said he was perverted, yet Brianne saw nothing about the man that spoke of perversion in any form. He seemed always to be apart from others, always alone. He sought out Brianne and watched her quietly, but there was no hint of disrespect or lewdness in his manner toward her. Perhaps, she mused, it was her inexperience that kept her from seeing the truth about him.

She'd heard that Sabon was an enemy of L. Pierce Hutton, who had publicly denounced Sabon's recent support of a nation that was constantly under sanctions from the world community because of its aggressive political stance. Pierce seemed certain that Sabon was only seeking political support in the region by his public friendship with the other country. He wanted wealth and power and didn't mind what he had to do to obtain it. In that, he had something in common with Kurt Brauer, Brianne
mused. Kurt didn't seem to have a conscience or a limit in his search for material wealth. And there was still something very shady about his income. He seemed to do no real work of any sort, although he was connected in some way to oil exploration. But the men who visited him didn't look like oilmen to Brianne. They looked like…well, like killers.

Philippe Sabon's continued presence at the villa, and his unwavering scrutiny, made Brianne very nervous. She spent as much time away from the villa as possible. Her mother thought she was overreacting to an older man's interest in her, and Kurt didn't care what his friend and associate was up to as long as he benefited from it financially. Brianne had no allies in that elegant house on the bay, not one.

Pierce Hutton had come back to the island three months earlier, but Brianne had only seen him once, last night, at a fancy social gathering that Kurt and her mother had taken her to. He was conducting business with a vengeance. He looked much better, but there was still a haunted darkness in his eyes. And he seemed ill at ease when he saw Brianne.

She remembered walking up to him with a smile, only to have him give her a strangely
hostile glare and turn his back on her. It had hurt more than anything in recent years. Presumably he only wanted to be friends with her when he was drunk. She'd taken the hint and she'd avoided him all evening. Not one word had passed between them. That had probably been the best thing that could have happened, because Sabon disliked Pierce and Kurt wouldn't do anything to irritate him. Certainly it wasn't likely that Pierce would receive any invitations to the Brauer home while Sabon was in residence.

As she gazed at the crowds at Prince George Wharf, she realized that thoughts of Pierce's hostility had kept her awake most of last night. Silly, she thought, to imagine that he'd meant anything he said while he had half a bottle of Scotch whiskey inside him. She really was naive for someone who'd just turned twenty years old. She remembered her last birthday vividly. She'd spent it with Pierce. This year had no such pleasant associations. Her mother and stepfather had given her a pearl necklace, and her friend Cara Harvey had mailed her a scarf from Portugal, where she was spending the summer with her parents and having a rough time with a Portuguese nobleman who thought
she was trying to seduce his younger brother. Except for Cara's gift, it had been a singularly uneventful birthday.

Sabon had wanted to throw her a party on his yacht, but she'd quickly found a reason to go into town. She had visions of being kidnapped and carried off into sexual slavery by that libertine. She'd heard rumors about him that didn't exclude kidnapping.

The wind blew her loosened blond hair around the shoulders of the pink silk tank top she was wearing with white Bermuda shorts and sandals. She wore a fanny pack so she wouldn't have to lug a purse, and she felt young and full of ginger. If it hadn't been for her situation at home, Nassau would have been all she wanted from life. It was so fascinating.

As she watched the big white ocean liner being turned by two tiny tugboats in a bay that seemed far too small for such an operation, she became aware of someone standing just behind her, watching. She turned, and there was Pierce, neat as a pin in white slacks and a yellow knit shirt.

He had his hands in his pockets. His black eyes were still full of storms, but they were oddly intent on her face.

“Hello, Mr. Hutton,” she said politely, and with a smile. It was the sort of smile she'd have given the most distant acquaintance. He knew it, too.

His broad shoulders shifted as he glanced past her to the ship. “I've been entertaining a businessman from the States.” He nodded toward the ocean liner. “He just left, on that.”

She didn't know what to say. She only nodded awkwardly, turned and started back down the pier toward the wharf, her long hair flying away in the breeze. She knew that he wanted nothing to do with her; he'd made that clear at the party. She was willing to oblige him.

“Oh, hell, stop!”

She froze, but she wouldn't turn around. “Yes?” she asked.

All around them, tourists walked past, talking excitedly, gesturing. Nearby, one of the boat owners was singing a West Indian tune, hoping to attract more business with his talent. Brianne was hardly aware of the noise. Her heart was beating so loudly that it shook her.

She felt the warmth of his body at her back.

“I've been trying to forget Paris,” he said after a minute.

“You, and Humphrey Bogart,” she said dryly.

“What? Oh. Oh!” He chuckled. “I see.”

She turned around then and squared her shoulders. “Look, you don't owe me a thing. I don't want rewards or even attention. I'm doing all right. I think Kurt will be more than willing to put me through college just to get me out of his hair.”

His eyes narrowed. “That isn't what local gossip says. I hear there's a move to involve you with his brand-new business partner, a sort of family merger.”

She lost color, but she didn't blink an eyelash. “Really?”

“Don't prevaricate,” he said impatiently. “I know everything that goes on in Nassau.”

She felt her blood go cold. Kurt hadn't said any such thing to her, but if it was common knowledge around the island, it might be true. She straightened her shoulders. “I can take care of myself.”

“At nineteen?”

“Twenty,” she corrected him. “I had a birthday this week.”

He made a rough sound. “Okay, maybe you're not such a kid, after all. And maybe you
can take care of yourself, in your own league. But, honey, you're fighting city hall when you tangle with Kurt Brauer, much less with Sabon.”

“Something you know from experience?”

He cocked an eyebrow and smiled. He didn't want to tell her that he'd once intervened in a shady oil deal that Brauer was making with a terrorist group to provide them with arms in return for making an assault on a rival's oil tanker fleet. That information hadn't gone past his own security chief, Tate Winthrop, a former government operative who'd foiled Brauer's attempted coup. Winthrop was a full-blooded Sioux Indian with a mysterious background and friends in some of the highest offices in Washington, D.C. He had sources that even Pierce didn't.

He smiled at Brianne. “I didn't say
I
couldn't win. I said
you
couldn't. Where are you in such a hurry to go?”