To Love a Thief

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“I think I should go with you.”

He shook his head. “I work alone. I always have. Besides, you’re not trained for field operations.”

“Tell that to the guy at the morgue.”

The swift comeback earned her a hard look. Mackenzie took it without a blink. Roles and missions had become something of a sore point between her and Nick since that operation in San Antonio some months back. She really couldn’t understand why he still got steamed over the fact that she’d snuggled up to the country club type who’d hired a hit man to kidnap and kill his wife. Helping take the sleazy contractor down had provided Mackenzie intense satisfaction. It was hard to accept being relegated to mere staff work again.

Which was where Nick seemed determined to keep her.

Rising with the fluid, pantherlike grace that characterized him, he rounded the desk. Mackenzie found herself trapped between a solid block of mahogany and one hundred eighty-plus pounds of lean muscle encased in a hand-tailored Brioni suit.

“One of the first rules of survival in the field is to avoid unnecessary distractions. And you, Comm, are in serious danger of becoming a distraction.”

Mackenzie waffled between feeling flattered and insulted for all of two seconds before deciding on insulted. She’d experienced plenty of sexism in the navy, some unintentional, some not. She hadn’t put up with it then. She wasn’t about to now. In her characteristic way, she laid the matter right on the line.

“If you’re referring to how close we came to a lip-lock the other night, we both know it wouldn’t have happened. Neither one of us is the type to indulge in an office affair.”

He cocked his head, measuring her through a screen of ridiculously sexy gold-tipped lashes. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yes.” She looked him square in the eye. “I’m sure. You’re a professional, Nick. You take your work very seriously. So do I. I could send one of my technicians over to work communications for you, but I prefer to go myself. Like you, I’ve got a score to settle with whoever hired those bastards. And we both know I’m the best in the business when it comes to comm.”

She was. Nick couldn’t argue that. In all his years with OMEGA, he’d never encountered anyone with anything close to this woman’s uncanny ability. She could coax a signal from a dead satellite or milk data from supposedly secure, protected sources. He’d also spent enough years in the field to know how vital good comm was. You never knew when you might need an alternate escape route or an emergency on-scene extraction.

But his gut still kinked whenever he remembered how close Mackenzie had come to taking a bullet the other night. Everything in him shied away from the idea of putting her in the line of fire again.

For the first time since taking over as OMEGA’s acting director he understood how Adam Ridgeway must have felt whenever Maggie went into the field. Sending men and women you considered your friends into harm’s way was gut-clenching enough. Sending the stubborn, irritating female who’d somehow managed to get under his skin was infinitely worse.

The only plus that Nick could see to taking her to Nice with him was that he could keep an eye on her. They were both operating under the assumption that he was the target, but, as Mackenzie had pointed out, they hadn’t nailed that down yet. They wouldn’t until he worked out this French connection. Nick couldn’t discount the possibility that she’d been the intended victim, that someone who knew her connection to OMEGA wanted to eliminate her. Or, as she’d suggested, maybe the attack stemmed from her days in the navy.

“All right. I’ll have Mrs. Wells reserve two seats on the Concorde, with connecting flights to Nice. We can leave early tomorrow morning and be there in time for dinner. In the meantime…”

His glance roamed her neat white blouse and slim skirt. They represented a significant departure from her usual jeans but wouldn’t hack it at one of the most exclusive resorts on the Côte d’Azur.

“Get the Field Dress unit to fix you up with a wardrobe. You’d better take several gowns, a couple of cocktail dresses, a selection of resort day-wear. And bikinis. You’ll only need the bottoms, of course.”

“Of course.”

Mackenzie didn’t bat an eye. She knew from her Mediterranean cruise that everyone went topless on European beaches except prudish, self-conscious American tourists. No way she was going to admit she’d fallen smack into the prude category.

“We’ll stay at the Negresco,” Nick told her. “The owner has put out tentative feelers about the possibility of opening a Nick’s at the hotel. That will give me the perfect cover for a visit.”

“What about my cover?”

He made a show of shooting his snowy cuffs and Mackenzie guessed immediately what was coming. The man had a tabloid reputation to live up to, after all.

“The best cover is always the simplest. When asked, we’ll merely introduce you as my companion.”

“Define companion.”

“Friend. Mistress. Lover.”

“I don’t think so,” Mackenzie drawled. “Let’s go with business associate.”

For the first time since the attack, real amusement flickered in Nick’s eyes. “Do you really think the French will make any distinction between the two?”

“The French might not, but we will.”

With that firm pronouncement, Mackenzie left his office and plunged into her own preparations for the mission. Her first stop was the control center, where she had the communications tech on duty call in the rest of her crew. While waiting for them to arrive, she zapped out a few queries and began compiling a complete social, economic and geopolitical history of the French Riviera in general and the city of Nice in particular.

That done, she zipped down to the basement and consulted the magicians in Field Dress Unit. Field Dress had more experience outfitting OMEGA’s agents with Kevlar body armor, jungle fatigues and the latest in Arctic survival gear than designer originals. But as soon as Mackenzie explained her needs, the frizzy-haired genius who headed the unit sent his team to scour Washington’s most elite boutiques.

Within hours they’d decked Mackenzie out in sinfully decadent silk lingerie, the latest fall lines from Versace and Armani, shoes by Ferragamo, and handbags from Prada and Chanel. As Nick’s “associate,” she had to exude at least a degree of the same wealth and sophistication he did.

If an entire new wardrobe wasn’t enough to make her feel like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality II, the haughty, self-important genius Field Dress brought in to tame her shoulder-length mane would have done the trick. As Mackenzie explained to the stylist, she usually just twisted the mink-brown mass at the back of her head, anchored it with a plastic clip, and went about her business.

“Obviously,” the artist sniffed.

When finally released from Field Dress, a gelled, manicured and pedicured Mackenzie escaped to control center. Her communications technicians greeted her with a barrage of grins and wolf whistles.

“Whoooo-weee!” the oldest of the group exclaimed. “That’s some new look, boss.”

Mackenzie tossed her head, flipping a glossy swirl over one shoulder, and returned John’s grin.

“Like it?”

“What’s not to like?”

She’d worked with the happily married father of four long enough now to accept the compliment as intended.

“You may change your mind when you realize we have to stuff a suitcase load of electronics into this little number,” she told him, dangling her Prada handbag by its strap.

Her group of experts instantly focused on the envelope-size bag. There was nothing they loved more than a challenge like this one.

“Good thing we’ve acquired those new, miniaturized circuit boards,” John murmured. “What are you thinking you’ll need, chief?”

Mackenzie had worked the list in her mind while Field Dress attacked her body. She had no idea what she and Lightning might run into in France, but she intended to be prepared for just about anything.

“I want secure satellite voice transmitters for both me and Lightning, NAVSAT directional finders, biochemical sensors, a sound amplifier that will let me listen to conversations up to fifty meters away and the sharpest high-resolution surveillance cameras in our inventory. Plus the new Taser we’ve been testing.”

John gave another whistle. The Taser was the latest CIA version of a stun gun. No larger than an ordinary ballpoint pen, it packed a powerful punch. A quarter-second contact caused instantaneous muscle contraction. One to two seconds short-circuited an attacker’s neuro-centers and brought him down. Three would leave him staring at the ceiling in a daze.

Given that an agent’s life could well depend on the equipment he or she took into the field, Mackenzie and her people thoroughly tested every de vice they added to their electronic grab bag. She and John had both endured only a half-second zap. That was more than enough to convince both of them of the effectiveness of this particular device.

“Hope you don’t have to use that baby in an operational mode,” John commented, remembering how he’d snarled like a bear with a sore paw for days after the test.

“Not to worry,” Mackenzie returned with a shrug. “I’ll save it for the bad guys.”

Chapter 4

Mackenzie and Nick left for the Riviera early the next morning. She’d never flown aboard the Concorde before and firmly squelched memories of its horrible crash outside Paris some years ago. The sleek, needle-nosed jet represented the ultimate in luxury and speed. A three-and-a-half hour transatlantic flight took them into Paris, where a short connecting flight ferried them to the south of France.

Given the five-hour time difference, Mackenzie and Nick stepped out of the Nice airport into a late afternoon drenched with the scent of honeysuckle and bougainvillea. She pushed her Chanel sun glasses up the top of her head and breathed in the perfumed air. With it came a pungent tang that mariners the world over immediately recognized.

The sea was close, so close she could almost taste its salt. She was still savoring the familiar scent when Nick slid a hand under her arm and guided her toward the mile-long limo idling at the curb. Its short, stocky uniformed chauffeur jumped to attention at their approach.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Jensen. I am Jean-Claude Broussard, your driver. Welcome to Nice.”

“Merci. Je suis très heureux d’être de retour.”

The reply earned Nick a look of respect from the chauffeur and a curious glance from Mackenzie. She knew Lightning had been born somewhere in France, but that’s all she or anyone else at OMEGA knew about his life before he was adopted by Paige and Doc Jensen and brought to the States. He’d grown up in California, graduated from Stanford and joined OMEGA not long after a tour in the military. In all the time Mackenzie had worked with him, he’d never used any gestures or slang that would mark him as anything but American.

Yet she’d sensed the change in him almost from the moment the Concorde had touched down in Paris. He seemed more casual, yet somehow more cosmopolitan. As if he were changing his spots to suit his environment. A leopard blending into the dry, brown African veld.

Only this veld wasn’t dry or brown. As the limo rolled out of the airport and sped past the more industrial areas, a landscape filled with brilliant color began to unfold. Red-tile-roofed villas stair-stepped down sheer cliffs. Palm trees waved lacy fronds against the early evening sky. Orange and pink and purple blossoms climbed walls, spilled from flower boxes, twined along wrought iron balconies.

And the Mediterranean! She’d forgotten how beautiful—and changeable—it was. At its deepest, the waters were a dark, unfathomable navy. Here, closer to land, waves of alternating shades of turquoise, lapis and aquamarine teased the shore. Sighing at the sight, Mackenzie used the drive in from the airport to reset her mental clock and run through the data she’d pulled up about Nice.

Native Ligurians had occupied the steep hills above the sea for thousands of years before conquering Greeks established the “modern” city of Nikaia on the site. The Romans followed the Greeks, constructing a forum, extensive baths and an amphitheater. In medieval times, rival armies from Provence, Tuscany, Savoy and Turkey all battled over the city at various times, until the French finally took permanent possession.

The next invasion occurred during the Belle Epoque of the late 1800s, when Nice became a fashionable winter retreat for aristocrats from all over Europe. Queen Victoria visited regularly. So did the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia. The onion-shaped domes of the cathedral they’d built in honor of their oldest son, who died suddenly of an illness while vacationing in Nice, were just visible over the sea of red-tiled roofs.

Along with the rich and titled came the artists and actors. Matisse lived and painted here until his death in 1954. Picasso, Dali, Chagall were all seduced by the dazzling light and shimmering colors of the coast. F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda held court at their favorite table in the Negresco. Rudolph Valentino, Maurice Chevalier, Marlene Dietrich, and Gary Cooper, to name just a few, strolled the Promenade des Anglais, named for the English visitors whose wealth brought such prosperity to the little seaside resort.

Nice was just as popular today as it had been at the turn of the century. With neighboring Cannes only a few miles to the east and the principality of Monaco just around the bay to the west, new royalty in the form of rock stars and sports figures now patronized its very exclusive and very expensive boutiques.

No computer-generated report could prepare Mackenzie for the actual impact of the famous resort, however. Lowering the shaded window, she gawked like any tourist as the limo swept down the Promenade des Anglais. Hotels and palaces bordered one side of the broad, palm-lined thoroughfare, the Mediterranean the other.

This was the famous boulevard where aristocrats once paraded beneath straw boaters and lacy parasols. Where the eccentric American dancer, Isadora Duncan, choked to death in 1927, when her long scarf caught under the wheel of her automobile as it sped along the promenade. Where lovers of all ages still strolled hand in hand.

The sun worshippers were out in full force on the pebbled beaches, soaking up the slanting rays in blue-painted wooden beach chairs. A good many of the women, Mackenzie noted, had opted for bottomless as well as topless. Heads tipped back, legs outstretched, hands clasped over their bare middles, they indulged in the serious business of doing nothing.

Sunbathers weren’t the only ones enjoying the golden glow cast over the sea. Yachts and cabin cruisers of every size bobbed in the exclusive marinas sprinkled along the promenade. Bikini-clad nymphs and paunchy boat owners in Zorba the Greek hats lounged on the aft decks, sipping aperitifs. Larger craft drifted at the ends of their anchor chains farther out on the bay.

Halfway down the Promenade des Anglais the marble statue of a large woman in what looked like peasant dress sat perched atop a tall column. Leaning forward, Mackenzie squinted up at the curious figure.

“Who’s that?” she asked the driver through the Plexiglas divider.

“Ahhh, that one.” Jean-Claude kissed his fingertips to the statue. “She is the patron saint of our city. A laundress who saves Nice from the Turks many, many years ago.” He grinned at his passengers via the rearview mirror. “She is fat, no?”

“Well…”

“And ugly. So very ugly.”

Mackenzie had to admit the woman wouldn’t win any beauty contests. With her fleshy jowls, overlapping chins and great, humped nose, she scared off even the pigeons. Jean-Claude seemed to take great pride in her repulsiveness.

“When the Turks come,” he explained, “this laundress climbs to the city wall. She bends over, lifts her skirt, and wiggles her so fat, so bare…Uh… How do you say…?”

“Derriere,” Nick supplied dryly.

“Mais oui! Her derriere. The Turks, they take one look and retreat immediately. The laundress, she becomes our patron saint.”

Laughing, Mackenzie snuggled back against the leather. She wasn’t sure whether to believe the outrageous tale, but the idea that the citizens of Nice would erect a monument to the woman who mooned an invading army gave her a whole different perspective on the city and its people. The Niçois, it appeared, had a lively sense of humor.

She was still chuckling as the limo glided to a stop at their hotel. When the driver handed her out, she couldn’t hold back a gasp at its turn-of-the-century splendor.

“C’est magnifique, oui?” Jean-Claude asked, beaming with proprietary pride.

“And then some.”

A monstrous copper-topped dome crowned the hotel’s corner entrance. Elaborate mansards decorated the wings that swept out to either side. The gleaming white marble structure had to take up a full city block! The interior beckoned through revolving brass-and-glass doors, as plush and Victorian as the exterior.

Leaving the chauffeur and bellman to attend to the luggage, Nick slid a hand under Mackenzie’s elbow and escorted her inside. His touch was light and just casual enough to raise little goose bumps all up and down her arm.

For Pete’s sake! She had to get a grip here.

She was the one who’d argued her way into this mission. She’d insisted the little interlude between her and Nick a few nights ago didn’t mean anything, that they were both professional enough to separate business from pleasure. Still, she couldn’t help remembering his cynical remark that the French didn’t differentiate between the business as sociate and the mistress of a virile and very wealthy executive. As if to prove his point, the hotel manager gave her an admiring once-over before turning to Nick with a look that conveyed approval, deference and just a touch of envy.