Once in Paris

“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.