Once in Paris

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?”

“I thought I’d get on my swimsuit and lie on the beach for a while. Kurt owns the Britanny Bay Hotel, you know. I can use the facilities there, and I keep a bathing suit in the office.”

“Come home with me. I have a private beach. You can swim there.”

She remembered his attitude the night before and hesitated. “You don’t really want me around.”

“No,” he agreed at once. “I don’t. But you need someone. I seem to be all you’ve got right now.”

She flushed with angry pride. “Thanks a lot!”

“Don’t knock it,” he added heavily, and his eyes were resigned and quiet as he studied her. “You’re all I’ve got.”

The statement rocked her right down to her feet. He was the most astounding man. He came out with the most profound things at the oddest times.

“I told you,” he added, “that I don’t have family. I was an only child, and after Margo miscarried, she couldn’t conceive again. Except for some cousins in Greece and France and Argentina—all distant—I have no family. And no close friends.” He stuck his hands in his slacks pockets and stared out over the turquoise water of the bay as he spoke. “Brianne, do you really think anyone else would have given a damn if I got rolled that night I drank too much?” he asked ruefully. “Do you think anyone would have cared if I’d died right there?”

“I would have,” she said.

“Yes, I know. It doesn’t make things any easier. You’re too young.”

“You’re too old,” she retorted. She smiled. “Does it matter, really?”

His black eyes surveyed her with faint amusement. “I suppose not. Come on. I’ve got the car.”

Chapter Three

The entrance to Pierce’s villa was through a high wrought-iron gate that had to be opened electronically by a device in the Mercedes he drove on the island. The paved driveway was lined by towering casuarina pines with their feathery spines, and flame trees in glorious bloom. Along the sand that flanked the driveway were blooming hibiscus plants and sea grape trees with circular leaves, which slaves were said to have used for plates in the days of pirate ships.

Two huge German shepherds lived in a kennel near the main house.

“King and Tartar,” Pierce said, indicating the dogs as they drove past the chain-link fence that contained the animals. “They’re let loose at night inside the gates. I wouldn’t want to run into them myself.”

She smiled. “I guess in your income bracket, you can’t afford to take chances.”

“I don’t. I have a security chief who makes the White House brigade look sloppy.” He glanced at her. “I’ll have to introduce you one day. He’s Sioux.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Indian?”