Charade Page 9

  Given that, making love with Mark—perhaps the last act of their lives—made perfect sense. They’d be crazy not to.

  She was nearly naked. Jacket, sweater, bra off, panties thrown somewhere. Her only item of clothing was her skirt twisted around her waist.

  Mark, on the other hand, was still sort of halfway decent. He even had his windbreaker still on. He’d just opened his pants and pushed his briefs down. In a second, he’d look normal. The only place he was naked was where he was still connected to her.

  But holding him still felt really good. Harper could feel his hard muscles through the layers of cloth. She tightened her arms around him, holding on as close as she could to all that power and strength, as if it could pass through him into her, then dropped her arms and legs to the dusty floor because she had no strength at all left.

  Turning her head, she sniffed at his neck, lips curling in a helpless smile as she kissed him. He hardened inside her in response, but she shook her head. No way could she have another round. Her muscles were reduced to jelly.

  He smelled good, too, though she could also smell the funk of sweat and, embarrassingly, she could also smell the sex coming from their groins. His juices and hers.

  His juices…

  God.

  They hadn’t used a condom! It hadn’t even occurred to her to think of birth control. The desire had been too elemental, too fierce, to think of anything but having him inside her. To have an orgasm that nearly blew her head apart.

  “Mark!” she whispered fiercely in his ear. “We didn’t use—”

  “A condom,” he sighed as he pulled out of her and lifted himself on his forearms. His face was right above hers and he looked her straight in the eyes. “I have to confess I didn’t think of it. Didn’t even cross my mind.”

  “Mine, either.” It had to be said. She’d been as mindless as he had. “I’m always so very careful.”

  “Me, too.” He bent briefly, kissed the tip of her nose. “But I have regular checkups and like I said, I’m always careful. Or was, until this moment. I’m clean, though. Guaranteed.”

  She nodded. Me, too.

  But of course, no condom was more than just an issue of possible disease.

  “What if—”

  “Shh.” He kissed the side of her mouth this time. “It’ll be all right. Whatever happens, I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this together.”

  And those words, just like that, changed something inside her. He was still the insanely attractive, super-macho male who’d intrigued her. That hadn’t changed. What changed was in her. His face, right above hers, had morphed. It wasn’t simply an attractive stranger’s face. No, it had become the face of someone who’d carved a place in her heart. Crazy as it sounded, he was part of her.

  There was an almost magnetic component to their bodies, they almost clicked when they touched each other, as if they’d have to be pulled apart. The French had a saying for people who’d bonded. Les atomes crochues. Their very atoms had intertwined.

  Even crazier, she felt like she was looking at her future.

  Alarming. Exhilarating. Both, at the same time. Particularly since they might not have a future at all.

  “Come.” Mark stood, pulled his pants and briefs over his hips and zipped up. Just like that, in a matter of seconds, he was back to normal. She, on the other hand, looked like a wanton woman, lying on her back, naked except for the soft skirt wrapped around her waist.

  Mark held out a huge hand and easily lifted her to her feet. She should have felt ashamed or at least awkward, but she didn’t. They’d shared a moment of intense closeness and next to that, it didn’t make any difference that she was standing there half naked, her clothes scattered on the floor.

  Mark stepped forward and put his arms around her. Her own arms automatically went around his waist and she once again felt all that power flowing into her. He kissed the top of her head, bent his mouth to her ear.

  “I’m not sorry.”

  She gave a sharp shake of her head against his shoulder. “No.” There was a whirlwind of emotions in her—sharp and raw—but regret wasn’t one of them.

  He pulled away slightly. “Here, honey. Let me help you.”

  Harper stood like a doll while he picked up her bra from the floor, holding out her arms obediently as he put it on her and fastened it in back.

  “Up,” he said softly, and her hands shot up so he could slide the silk sweater down her arms. He pulled the hem down over her waist, smoothed the fabric over her hips. His eyes followed his hands and in the harsh light of the flashlight, the edges of his face grew harder.

  He bent to pick up her panties and held them for a long moment. The pale cream lace looked amazingly sexy in his big, rough hands, a study in contrasts.

  Mark knelt to help her put her panties back on, but then once on his knees, he stilled. He glanced up at her once, then fixated on her mound, eyes unwavering.

  Looking down, Harper saw his dark, short hair, stubby eyelashes, straight nose, sharp cheekbones, all foreshortened, like in some Renaissance painting showing perspective. She couldn’t quite see his expression, but she knew what it was. God knew she’d seen it often enough lately. He was aroused. It was clear in the ruddy cheeks, tight skin over his temples, harsh breathing.

  How could he possibly be aroused? They’d just had incredibly intense and exhausting sex. How could he want more? How could—

  Mark leaned forward, eyes narrowed. His thumbs opened her and he ran his tongue along her sex, and her legs trembled.

  Oh. That’s how. If you’d asked her, she’d have said that she couldn’t have any kind of sex, she was just tapped out. But apparently her body—which she was starting to realize she didn’t know as well as she thought she did—had reserves. Who knew?

  Mark opened his mouth and kissed her there, exactly as if it were her mouth. Licking and nibbling and taking little bites. It was so intense she couldn’t stand. She needed to sit down or lie down. Or something.

  But somehow his hands were holding her up, he wouldn’t let her fall while he was devouring her alive.

  Mark stopped, looked up at her. Though the light was dim, she could see that he was flushed, lips colored dark red, eyes deep and luminous.

  “I can smell us—you and me. I can taste both of us.”

  Her knees wobbled. The idea, the image, of her body containing her juices and his semen—crazily, it turned her on. Usually she rushed to the shower to wash the smell of sex off her but this time she didn’t want that. They’d had raw sex and it was right that she still smelled and tasted of him. She tried to say that but nothing came from her throat but air.

  Mark’s mouth and tongue were hot on already inflamed tissues. It was way too intense and she tried to evade his mouth but those big, strong hands held her fast, there was no escape, nothing to do but endure. Everything inside her seemed to curl inward, spiraling tighter and tighter until she had to close her eyes and stop breathing, and still everything became more intense, spiraling more and more…

  The wave crested and broke and Harper drew in a deep breath but before she could moan, his big hand covered her mouth and she ended up making a muffled keening sound into his palm. She was sweating and shaking, prickly heat sliding under her skin, her hands clutching his head, the one steady thing in a roiling ocean of sheer pleasure.

  Harper’s legs were weak and shaking and could barely hold her up. Mark waited for her to find her balance, then lifted one foot then the other foot into her panties and slowly pulled the stretchy lace up her legs. He held her hips, the soft skirt falling over his hands as he rose to his full height.

  Harper watched him rise helplessly. He was somehow dominating her body without bending her will to him. Her body followed his blindly. She was helplessly plugged in to what he wanted because she wanted it too. If you’d asked her if she wanted another round of sex, she’d have said no. Hell no, even. Until he had pressed his face against her belly and then that crazy switch insi
de her flipped to whatever Mark wants mode.

  When he removed his hands from her hips, the skirt fell to mid-calf and, like Mark, she was decent again.

  He cupped her face, his hands entirely covering the sides of her head, and bent forward until his forehead touched hers.

  “What are you doing to me?” he asked.

  That was rich. What was she doing to him? Harper gave a weak laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Mark shook his head. “I’ve lost control. I never lose control.”

  “Me either.” It was true. Harper prided herself on her self-control, on not being swayed by anything or anyone.

  The only good thing about this was that she wasn’t alone. He was just like her—both caught in a wild river flowing downhill, smashing into boulders and logs, unable to control their movements.

  “You shouldn’t be so beautiful and fascinating,” he complained. “It’s not fair.”

  At that, Harper smiled. “So…” She waved a forefinger between them, tapping her chest, tapping his. “This. This is all my fault?”

  He sighed. “God yeah. I’m helpless to resist you.”

  Suddenly the reality of their situation came crashing in on her. “That’s so dangerous,” she whispered. “We’re not at the Ritz.”

  Mark blew out a breath and stood straight, putting a few inches between them. “No, we’re not. I’m not sorry I couldn’t resist you, but we need to put that behind us now.” He stared down into her eyes, curling a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Until we can get back to the Ritz.”

  Tears welled suddenly in her eyes and she had to blink hard to keep them from spilling over. The Ritz. How she missed it! Not the luxury so much as the feeling of civility and normality it represented. If terrorists blew up the Louvre, it would be as bad as 9/11. Another spate of wars would ensue. Their world would be changed forever.

  “I can’t wait to get back to the Ritz.”

  “That’s my girl. Focus on that. We’ll get through this.”

  “Will we?” And this time tears spilled over. Mortified, she swiped at her cheeks. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

  The last thing she wanted was to be a dead weight to Mark, a sniveler, someone he had to worry about in these dangerous circumstances.

  “That’s okay. I get it that you’re scared. I’m scared, too.”

  She looked at him, tall and broad and so strong it was almost absurd. “Yeah, right.”

  “No, really. The only difference is that I’ve been trained to deal with it.” Mark looked her over, more like a comrade checking for wounds than a lover. “Okay. Let’s see what we have here.”

  He did something to that cellphone so that it continued showing the Mona Lisa room without the cable connection. The image lost a tiny bit of clarity as he took her hand and walked them farther into the walls until they were in the back of an adjoining room. He made her sit down with her back to the wall, cross-legged, then sat down himself, long legs bent. He reached into his backpack and handed her a fresh bottle of water. Two down, two to go.

  She cracked the top, drank half, handed him the bottle. Gave him a steely look until he finished it.

  “So—you’re scared?” she asked him.

  “I’d be crazy not to be scared. Anything can happen and there’s a lot of weaponry out there. But I learned a long time ago to channel fear and master it. It’s there but it’s controllable. We’re not dying. Not today.”

  The way he said it, not boasting, just stating a fact, was actually reassuring.

  “That guy you were talking to. The head of the DGSE.”

  “Robert?”

  “Yeah. You were talking about the Dubrovka Theater scenario. What’s that?”

  Mark stared as his knees for a moment, then sighed. “On the 23rd of October, 2002, forty Chechen terrorists overran a theater in Moscow that was showing a very popular musical. There were over 850 members of the audience surrounded by terrorists who were demanding the end of the Second Chechen War.”

  “About as likely as our terrorists demanding the release of prisoners,” she said dryly.

  “Yeah. They kept the hostages without food and water for almost three days and had started murdering them—two women were shot and killed. Russian Special Forces couldn’t storm the place because they’d have had to rush down about a hundred feet of corridor manned by terrorists and then up a staircase before reaching the theater itself. And the terrorists had set explosives all around, and heavy explosives in the middle of the hostages.”

  She pulled in a shocked breath. She could see it—a replica of what was on the other side of the wall. A long corridor before reaching the hostages, explosives set along the way…

  “Like here.”

  “Like here.” Mark nodded. “No way to get to the terrorists without unacceptable casualties, and in the time it would take to get to the terrorists, they could wipe out the hostages. An impossible situation.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They gassed the place.”

  Her voice was a shocked whisper. “They what?”

  “They gassed the place. They never announced what they used but everyone agrees it was an opiate, a strong one. Probably Fentanyl.”

  “The one that’s causing so many deaths in the opioid crisis?”

  His mouth tightened. “That’s the one. It’s a thousand times more effective than opium. Very fast acting. But very dangerous. Out of the almost 900 hostages, about 170 died from the drug.”

  “Conquering the disease but killing the patient.”

  “That’s right. But I’m trusting that Robert has something better. As powerful and as fast-acting but that won’t kill the hostages. Or that they will come with a drug that can counter the effects fast.”

  Harper thought about it.

  “Could they send the drug through the ventilation system?”

  Mark glanced at her. “Smart thinking, but no, they can’t. They shut off all electricity in the Louvre, all systems are down. The lighting they have is via generators they brought up. So I think Robert’s best solution would be to somehow get something to me that I can pump into the room. From what I understand, that is the only room where they have live hostages.” He waited a beat, took her hand in his. His voice turned gentle. “Honey, I think we’re going to have to assume that any tourists they have in the halls or in the building are dead. It takes a hell of a lot of manpower to keep living hostages prisoners. I’m assuming that the only ones left alive are in the Mona Lisa room.”

  Harper stared at her knees, thinking of how many dead there must be out there. But not all of those innocent people were dead. There was still a room full of people they might be able to save. She had to help Mark in any way she could, trying to recall schematics she’d once seen in an archive of architectural drawings.

  She elbowed him. “Mark, there are chimney pots at regular intervals along the Louvre roofline. It would be dangerous because it’s a mansard roof and slopes very steeply. But if they can lower everything we need through the chimney pots to this level, we could do it.”

  She could see the whites of his eyes. “We? What do you mean we?”

  “You need me. I know the Louvre. This morning at the entrance, I wasn’t paying any attention, but I’m paying attention now. If we need to emerge from the walls, I know how to get to where we have to go as quickly as possible.”

  “No.” Mark shook his head. “I studied the map. I’m not having you emerging from these walls. Absolutely not.”

  “Mark.” She touched his arm and felt his muscles almost vibrating with tension. “What you studied was a tourist’s map that shows just the main rooms and corridors. It’s not a complete map. I know I got a little turned around this morning, but I still know the place better than you possibly can. And you don’t know what they’re going to give you. I can help you carry things.”

  His jaw muscles worked. “You are going to stay right here, flat on the ground. If shooting starts, they will aim for head height. It
’s almost impossible for them to hit you if you’re on the ground, the angles would be all wrong.”

  For a second, Harper was tempted. Really tempted. Let Mark do his thing. He was trained for this and—she had a master’s in art history. Staying flat on the ground in a possible shooting scenario sounded like a very smart idea.

  But—brave as he was, Mark was one person, operating in a building he’d never been in before.

  All her life, Harper had loved art. Even as a little girl, her mother had bought her art books she’d pored over instead of toys. Everything about the Louvre was what she believed in from the bottom of her heart. Mankind was brutal, greedy, unforgiving. Men fomented wars, tortured and enslaved people.

  Mankind also produced beautiful things, things that elevated the soul, made us more than brutes.

  If she stayed cowering on the floor while Mark went out alone, what would the rest of her life be like?

  A lie.

  “I want to come with you. I must come with you,” she said calmly. Her fingers clutched his arm. “I won’t get in your way, I just want to help, and I think I can. If shooting starts—”

  She swallowed. She’d never been near shooting but she’d watched a lot of films. It didn’t take much imagination to picture the two of them, broken and bleeding on the shiny parquet floor.

  And she imagined waiting on the dusty floor between walls for Mark to come back. Waiting for the sounds of gunfire, waiting…

  “If shooting starts,” she continued, keeping her voice steady, “I’m not guaranteed safety, anyway. I’d rather be out. I’d rather be with you.”

  “No,” he said through gritted teeth, his jaws so tense it was hard for him to get the word out of his mouth.

  “I’d be safer with you.”

  “No.” She could almost hear his teeth grinding.

  “We’re a team, Mark.” She dealt what she thought would be the killing blow. “Last night made us a team. We do this together or we don’t do it at all.”

  He blew out his breath and hung his head between his shoulders.

  Harper said nothing, just watched him, hand on his clenched arm. There was nothing more she could say. What she’d said made sense. She knew the hidden byways of the Louvre, certainly better than he did. She could help carry equipment. And she believed from the bottom of her heart that she’d be safer by his side. There was just something about him—his physical grace, his quiet efficiency—that made her believe in him.