Later, they would have to tackle the huge problem she’d created by asking him not to work for Interpol again. Depressed by that thought, he followed her example and shoved a convenient chair under the doorknob to block the door to the hall. Then he went out on the balcony to scan for vines that would provide a man with a convenient ladder. He was relieved to find none. Several potted plants had been set on the balcony, but no foliage reached it from the ground.
With Astrid so eager to hear him play again, he believed they were safe. He was also an extremely light sleeper, but he sat in the corner across from the bed, intending only to
rest. If anyone were so stupid as to slip into his room, they would be fooled by the pillow-stuffed bed for the split second it would take him to react. Uncertain whether or not he was merely picking up on Darcy’s fear or reacting to his own sense of danger, he rested his head against the wall and hoped the night would pass as quickly as the day.
Chapter Eighteen
Darcy dozed fitfully and, each time she awoke, the night surrounded her with familiar sounds: the crickets’ rhythmic chirping, the fountain’s bubbling rush and the occasional hoot of an owl.
But the soft scrape of a flowerpot being edged aside on the wrought-iron balcony sent her bounding from the bed. She tiptoed through the bathroom to Griffin’s room, but remained in the shadowed doorway until she found him pressed against the wall. His attention was riveted upon the balcony doors at his left, which she thought he’d been crazy to leave slightly ajar.
Her heart was in her throat, and a silent scream circled her whole body. A shadow crossed the french doors, and then a man slipped between them into the room. He took a step toward the pillowed figures in the bed, then waited a long moment before taking another step closer. Only a pale sliver of moonlight leaked through the open doorway, but Darcy saw the glimmer of a blade clutched in his hand.
She was certain Griffin saw it too, and on the man’s next stealthy step, he came away from the wall with a flying leap and kicked the would-be assassin in the temple. She covered her ears, but it was too late to muffle the sickening crack of a shattered skull, and she was certain the man was dead before his body bounced on the rug.
She quickly crossed the room to hit the light switch. The burly man who’d accompanied them from the airport lay sprawled beside the bed, the glow from the overhead fixture reflected in his blank stare.
“Damn, but you’re good,” she swore softly.
Griffin turned away to open the french doors wide, then he came near to whisper, “Save the compliments, just help me roll the guy off the balcony.”
That someone could still be listening unnerved her all the more, but she replied just as softly, “Why? He’s already dead.”
Griffin drew her outside. “That he is, but if he’s found splattered on the ground rather than in my room, no one can say we had anything to do with it.”
That made sense to her, but Griffin had to do most of the lifting while she grappled with the dead man’s legs. Limp, he presented an awkward burden, but once they’d hoisted him to the railing, he rolled right on over and landed with a hollow thud in the flowerbed below. Griffin snatched a tissue from the bathroom to lift his knife from the rug and tossed it down to him.
Darcy drank in the night air rather than shriek with what they had done, but had they been in that bed sound asleep in each other’s arms, they might very well be the ones who were dead. Refusing to dwell on that awful possibility, she moved to the end of the balcony. The window was open in the room next to hers and, while it must have taken a good stretch from the window ledge, she could easily see how the man had climbed onto their balcony.
“I heard him brush by one of these pots,” she said.
“Yes, so did I. I’d checked to make certain no one could come up from the garden, but I should have noticed how close the windows are here on the second story. I did listen to your warning, though, Darcy, and I was ready.”
“You sure were, but now what?”
“Now I’m going to be the one doing the hunting.” He pulled her into a fond embrace and brushed her lips with a light kiss. “I want you to stay here.”
She put her hands on his bare chest to push away, but he continued to hold her tight. “The next man might have a gun, and if he kicks in the door and takes me hostage, then Vaughn could force you to do his bidding.”
“Not if he can’t find you, and you needn’t remain here.”
“Look, was I in your way just now?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. We’ve got to stay together. Why don’t we just get the hell out of here?”
“Don’t think I’m not tempted to take you by the hand and run all the way back to Paris, but this is the closest I’ve come to Lyman Vaughn, and I won’t allow him to slip away.”
“Shouldn’t you contact Interpol and let them handle it?”
“It’s not as easy as dialing 911, but they should already be close.”
Darcy clung to that hope, but she felt sick clear through. Her only consolation was that they hadn’t been jumped while they were in the bathtub and left to float in blood-tinted water.
She slid her hands up his tightly muscled arms. He had enormous talent, the looks of a god, and struck with a cobra’s lethal force. It wasn’t her usual idea of a winning combination, but she would definitely make an exception for him.
“It looks as though I was right. Vaughn must know about your extracurricular activities, or he’d not have sent one of his men to kill us. But it also has to mean that he’s got a mole at Interpol, doesn’t it?”