Once in Paris

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, would you, please?” she asked brightly. “I’ve never, you see, and I’ve always wondered what makes women take off their clothes for men. Looking at statues in the Louvre isn’t really the best method of sex education, and just between us, Madame Dubonne seems to feel that babies are brought by seabirds with big beaks.”

His own eyebrows rose. “You’re outrageous.”

“I hope so. I’ve worked hard enough to get that way.” She searched his dark face quietly. “Feeling better?”

He shrugged. “Somewhat. I’m not drunk enough, but I’m numb.”

She put her fingers over his big hand. It was warm and muscular, and there were thick black hairs curling into the cuff of his long-sleeved white shirt. His fingernails were wide and flat and immaculately cleaned and trimmed. She touched them, fascinated.

He looked down, studying her own long, elegant fingers with short nails. “No paint,” he mused. “How about on your toenails?”

She shook her head. “My feet are too stubby to be elegant. I have useful hands and feet, not pretty ones.”

His hand turned over and caught hers. “Thank you,” he said abruptly, as if it irritated him to speak the words.

She knew what he meant. She smiled. “Sometimes all we need is a little comfort. You’re no weakling. You’re a tough guy, you’ll get through it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Certainly,” she said firmly. “Shouldn’t you go home now?” she asked, glancing around. “There’s a very slinky-looking woman over there with platinum hair out of a bottle giving you the eye. She looks like she’d just love to lead you home and make love to you and steal your wallet.”

He leaned toward her. “I can’t make love,” he said confidentially. “I’m too drunk.”

“She wouldn’t care, I think.”

He smiled lazily. “Would you?” he mused. “Suppose you come home with me, and we’ll give it my best shot.”

“Oh, not when you’re soused, thanks,” she replied. “My first time is going to be fireworks and explosions and the 1812 Overture. How could I possibly get that from a drunk man?”

He threw his head back and burst out laughing. He had a nice laugh, deep and slow and robust. She wondered if he did everything as wholeheartedly as he grieved.

“Take me home, anyway,” he said after the laughter passed. “I’m safe enough with you.” He hesitated after he’d laid the bills on the table. “But you can’t seduce me, either.”

She put her hand on her heart. “I promise.”

“All right, then.” He stood up, weaving a little, and frowned. “I don’t even remember coming here. Good God, I think I walked out in the middle of negotiations for a new hotel!”

“They’ll still be going on when you get back,” she chuckled. “Heave ho, Mr. Hutton. Let’s find a cab.”

Chapter Two

Pierce Hutton lived in one of the newest, most exclusive hotels in Paris. He fished out his key for her as they passed the doorman, who looked suspicious. So did the desk clerk, who approached them at the elevator.

“Something is wrong, Monsieur Hutton?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, Henri. I’m very drunk,” he replied unsteadily. His big arm tightened around Brianne. “Do you know my business associate’s daughter, Brianne? She’s in school in Paris. She found me at Chez Georges and brought me home.” He grinned. “She saved me from a femme du nuit who had her eye on my wallet.”

“Ah,” Henri said, nodding. He smiled at Brianne. “Do you require assistance, mademoiselle?”

“He’s rather heavy, but I think I can cope. Will you check on him later, just to make sure?” she added with genuine concern.

The last of Henri’s misgivings evaporated. “It will be my pleasure.”

She smiled shyly. “Merci beaucoup. And please don’t reply with more than il n’ya pas de quoi,” she added quickly, “because that’s the entire extent of my French vocabulary, despite Madame Dubonne’s most diligent efforts.”

“You are at La Belle Ecole?” he exclaimed. “Why, my cousin is there.” He named a girl whom Brianne knew just faintly.

“She has black hair,” Brianne recalled. “And she always wears a long sweater, however hot it is,” she added with a chuckle.

“Oui,” Henri said, shaking his head. “The enfant is always cold. Here, let me help you, mademoiselle,” he said, and assisted them to the elevator.

Henri helped them into the elevator, which was fortunately empty except for the operator, and instructed the man in rapid French to get Monsieur Hutton into his apartment.

“He will assist you,” he assured Brianne. “And we will take excellent care of monsieur,” he added gently.

She grinned at him. “Then I won’t worry.”

He nodded, thinking what a kind young woman she seemed. And such glorious blond hair!

She rode up in the elevator with Pierce and the operator, who helped her get him to the apartment, which she unlocked with his key. They maneuvered him into the huge bedroom, done in a black-and-white color scheme that seemed to suit him. The bed was king-size, with four posts that rose like slender wraiths toward the ceiling. They lowered him onto it, and he opened his eyes as he stretched on the black coverlet.

“I feel odd,” he murmured.

“I don’t doubt it,” Brianne mused, thanking the elevator operator, who smiled at her and closed the door behind him.

Pierce’s black eyes searched over Brianne’s flushed face. “Feel like helping me undress?” he asked.

She colored even more. “Well…”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he reminded her.

She hesitated. He wasn’t in any condition to do it himself. He was very drunk. Probably he wouldn’t remember what she looked like in the morning.

She untied his shoes and pulled them off, and his socks with them. He had nice feet. They were long and elegant, and very big. She smiled as she walked around the bed and eased him up into a sitting position. She took off the jacket and then unbuttoned the shirt. He smelled of expensive soap and cologne, and under that shirt was a broad, dark-skinned chest with thick black hair covering it. She touched it accidentally and her hand tingled.

“Margo was a virgin,” he said softly. “I had to coax her out of her clothes, and even though she loved me desperately, she fought me at first, because I had to hurt her.” He touched Brianne’s red face gently. “I don’t suppose there are any virgins left these days. Margo and I were always the odd ones out. Very traditional. I didn’t make love to her until we were married.”

“Can you move your arm…? Yes, that’s fine.” She didn’t want to hear this, but she was a captive audience. She pulled the shirt off and had to fight not to admire the tanned, muscular arms and chest. He didn’t look like a man who spent a lot of time behind a desk.

“You’re only nineteen,” he said on a rough breath. “If you were older, I think I could make love to you. You’re very pretty, little one. Your hair excites me. It’s so long, and there’s so much of it.” He took it in both hands and closed his fingers. “Sexy hair.”

“Yours is nice, too,” she said for the sake of conversation. “Now, I don’t think I can…” she added, her hands hesitating at his belt.

“Of course you can,” he said quietly. He coaxed her hands to the belt and held them there, helping her, his eyes on her face as she fumbled the buckle loose. He guided her to the fastenings and then deliberately placed her hands under both waistbands. “Now, pull,” he coaxed. And he arched his back to help her.

A hundred shocked, outraged, delighted thoughts flooded her mind as the clothing came away from that lithe, powerful body. He was nothing like the painting in the Louvre. He was beautifully made, a work of art in himself, with not a white streak or a bulge or a hint of fat anywhere. Fine hair shaded the most intimate part of him, and she hesitated with the slacks around his knees, with her heart beating her to death as she stared helplessly at where he was most a man.

It was a good thing, he thought dimly, that he was drunk, because her rapt expression would have triggered a raging arousal any other time. As it happened, he was too relaxed to feel desire at all, and for her sake, he was glad. She found him intimidating even in relaxation. He permitted himself a small upturn of the lips as he considered her expression if she saw him in full arousal.

That, of course, would never happen. Margo was dead. He was dead, inside and out. The brief amused light in his eyes went out. He lay back on the pillows with a long sigh.

“Why do people have to die?” he asked wearily. “Why can’t they go on forever?”

She broke out of her trance and finished stripping him, before she tugged the coverlet over his hips to spare herself any more embarrassment.

“I wish I knew,” she confided. She sat down beside him on the bed. Her hand went to rest on his where it spread over his chest. “Try to get some sleep now. It’s the best thing for you.”

His eyes opened, searching, haunted. “She was only thirty-five,” he said. “That’s no age at all these days.”

“I know.”

His hand turned and caught hers, smoothing it palm down into the thick hair that covered him. “White knights come in both sexes, it seems,” he mused drowsily. “Where’s your armor and lance, fair Joan?”

“In my pocket. Want to see?”

He smiled. “You’re good for me. You chase the clouds away.” He studied her. “But I’m bad for you. A very bad influence.”

“It was only a sip of whiskey,” she reminded him.

“And a striptease,” he added blithely. “I’m sorry about that. If I’d been more sober, I wouldn’t have put you in such an embarrassing situation.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. I’d seen that painting in the Louvre, among others, after all.” She cleared her throat. “He really was, uh, stunted, wasn’t he?”

He chuckled with pure delight.

“Sorry.” She pulled her hand away and got to her feet. “Can I bring you anything before I go?”

He shook his head. It was already beginning to hurt, despite the stupor. “I’ll be all right now. You’d better get back to school. Did you get in trouble for cutting that class?”

She chuckled. “Not a bit. I’ll finish next month.”

“Then where do you go?”

She looked forlorn for an instant before she disguised it. “Oh, back to Nassau, I guess, for the summer. But next fall, it’s university, whatever they say, even if I have to pay for it myself. I’m already a year behind the class I should be in. I’m not waiting any longer.”

“I’ll pay for it if they won’t,” he said, surprisingly. “You can pay me back when you have your degree.”

“You would…do that for a total stranger?”

He frowned slightly. “Total stranger?” he asked pointedly. “When you’ve seen me totally nude?”

She couldn’t manage a response.

“Which is something of an accomplishment, let me tell you. Until now, Margo was the only woman who ever saw me like that.” His eyes became dull again. He winced.

She put her fingers against his cheek in a comforting gesture. “I envy her,” she said genuinely. “It must have meant everything to her, to be loved like that.”

“It was mutual,” he managed to say through his teeth.

“Yes, I know.” She drew her hand away with a little sigh. “I’m sorry I can’t stop it from hurting so much.”

“You can’t imagine how much you’ve helped,” he replied solemnly. “The day I was in the Louvre I was looking for a way to get to her, did you know?”

She shook her head. “I only knew that you seemed totally alone and despondent.”

“I was. You eased the pain. Today, it came back, and you were there.” He searched her pale eyes. “I won’t forget that you pulled me back from the edge. Whatever you need, I’ll be around. I have a house of my own in Nassau, not too far from Brauer’s. When things get too hot, you can always come visiting.”

“It would be nice to have a friend in Nassau,” she confessed.

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t have a friend. At least, I didn’t.” He laughed coolly. “You’re a damned funny friend for a man my age.”

She smiled. “I was going to say the same thing.”

“So people will talk. Let them.” He caught her hand and brought the palm to his mouth. It was firm and cool against the faint moisture under her fingers. “I’ll see you again, Brianne.”

“I know.” She got to her feet, and her eyes lingered on his broad, dark face. “You have to look ahead, you know,” she said gently. “One day, it won’t be so hard. You must have things you haven’t done that you’ve always wanted to, designs that you haven’t tried yet, projects to complete.”

He stretched a little sorely. “For the past two years, I took care of Margo while the cancer ate her alive. It’s not easy, learning to live for myself. I don’t have anyone to take care of.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Don’t look at me. I’m independent, I am.”

His eyes darkened. “You’re a miracle,” he said unexpectedly. “Maybe guardian angels really do exist and you’re mine. But it’s reciprocal. I get to be yours. Pick the college you want. I’ll get you in, even if it’s Oxford. I have connections everywhere.”

Her eyes twinkled. “You don’t look like anyone’s fairy godfather.”

“Appearances can be deceptive. I’ve never seen a father confessor with long blond hair, either.”

She chuckled. “I’m going.”

“Go on, then. Thank you,” he added.

“It was no trouble. You’re worth saving from yourself.” She paused at the bedroom door and looked back, a little less bubbly now. “You…will be all right, won’t you?” she asked. “I mean, you won’t do anything…”

He leaned up on an elbow. “I won’t do anything,” he promised solemnly.

She made an awkward movement, a little unsure of herself. “Take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” he replied.

She opened the door, hesitated.

“I know you don’t want to go,” he said, his voice deep and a little curt. “But you have to.”

She looked at him over her shoulder with huge, curious eyes. “I don’t understand,” she murmured worriedly.

“We’ve learned more about each other in a lot less time than people usually do,” he explained. “It’s a kind of bonding that I haven’t experienced, either.” He smiled dryly. “Don’t worry about trying to understand it. Friendship is a rare thing. Just accept it.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

“Wait a minute. Hand me my slacks.”

“You’re going with me?” she mused, handing them to him.

“Funny girl,” he muttered darkly. “I’d fall down the elevator shaft in my present condition. No. I want to give you something.”

“If you try to pay me…!”

“Will you stop flashing those eyes at me?” he grumbled, pulling a card from his wallet. He tossed it onto the coverlet. “That has my private number, here in the hotel. If you get in trouble, if you need me, use it.”

She picked it up and lifted her eyes to his. “I’m sorry I misunderstood.”

“And what exactly would I pay you for, anyway?” he demanded irritably. “The sort of woman you’re thinking of does a little more than take off a man’s pants!”

She gasped.

“Get out,” he told her. “And take your evil mind with you, nasty girl.”

“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, Nicholas, 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.