“Captain Phillips . . . was a woman?”
Now it was the policeman’s turn to look confused.
“Yes, Sir. But surely you knew that? If you ordered the exercise?”
Slowly, painfully slowly, the penny began to drop.
Jeff Stevens drove away, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
Darling Tracy! He smiled to himself. You’ve still got it.
HUNTER DREXEL GAVE TWO hard, animal thrusts and climaxed.
The girl underneath him, Claudette, rolled over onto her back, smiling up at him languidly.
“Encore une fois?”
Hunter shook his head. He was far too exhausted to screw her again, or do anything other than sleep. It was a long time since he’d been with a woman, even longer since he’d been with a professional. He’d picked up Claudette at the Crazy Horse, where she was a dancer. At 500 euros a night her rates were steep, but well worth it. She was also clearly prepared to work hard for the money. If only Hunter weren’t too shattered to take advantage of it.
He’d taken a big risk coming to Paris. There was much more chance of his being recognized in a cosmopolitan city like this one. But if he was going to publish this story before Group 99 put a bullet between his eyes or the CIA spirited him off to some torture camp somewhere, he needed help. Sally was doing her best but that only went so far, and it was far too dangerous for Hunter to go to London. He had friends in Paris, journalists and subversives, who could help him. And the poker was outstanding.
Drifting into sleep, a parade of images danced before his eyes.
Sally Faiers, naked in his bed.
The Navy SEAL holding his hand out in the Chinook in Bratislava. “Get in!”
Bob Daley smiling at him, right before his head was blown off.
Apollo standing in the dark alleyway in Riga, smiling down the barrel of his gun.
Waking with a start, Hunter leaped out of bed and pulled Claudette’s right arm painfully behind her back. The little bitch was rifling through the pockets of his pants, trying to rob him!
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” Hunter hissed at her, turning her to face him. “Putain.”
“Asshole!” the girl shot back in English. “I know who you are.”
Hunter’s face darkened menacingly. All of a sudden, Claudette’s stomach liquefied with fear. She’d gone too far. This man was dangerous. Very dangerous. He’d seemed so handsome in the club, so charming. But the look in his eyes now was cold as ice.
Hunter muttered darkly. “Tu connais rien. Je pouvais te casser. Comme un poulet. Tu comprends?”
She nodded mutely.
“Get dressed and get out.”
He released her, watching in satisfaction as she grabbed her clothes, terrified, and ran.
CAMERON CREWE WAS ABOUT to go to bed when the doorman buzzed his apartment.
“What is it?” he asked curtly. He was in no mood for visitors.
“I’m sorry, Sir. But there’s a lady here to see you.”
“A lady?”
“Yes, Sir. A Miss Whitney. She says it’s urgent.”
Cameron’s bad mood evaporated like a puddle of rain in the sun. He hadn’t heard from Tracy since their phone call of a few days ago, and had fully expected her next call to be from a police cell. In fact she was here, in New York, on his doorstep.