Stranded with a Spy by Merline Lovelace Page A

le trou Normand , yes?”
    “The Norman hole?” Mallory translated dubiously.
    “Oui,” he beamed. “We Normans have the long tradition. We drink Calvados in the middle of a meal such as this. It makes the hole, you understand, for more food to follow.”
    Tipping his head, he tossed back the brandy and thumped his glass on the table. His wife did the same.
    “Now you,” he urged.
    Mallory glanced at Cutter, caught his grin, and raised her glass. “Le trou Normand.”
    “Le trou Normand,” he echoed.
    The Calvados slid down her throat like buttery apple cider. She tasted a hint of vanilla and rum raisin and started to smack her lips. Then the brandy hit her belly.
    “Whoa!” Breathing fire, she fanned the air and regarded her empty shot glass with awe. “That is some potent stuff!”
    Delighted by her pronouncement, Monsieur Villieu waved aside her protests and filled her glass again. She sipped cautiously this time and still had most of the brandy left when Cutter and his host excused themselves to talk business.
    The women tried to converse during their absence. After a few moments of labored conversation, Madame Villieu got up to clear the table. Mallory helped by toting the tureen into the stone farmhouse that had probably stood on this site as long as the gnarled fruit trees and twisted vines.
    They had the table cleared when the men returned. Their negotiations must have gone well, Mallory mused. Monsieur Villieu practically skipped across the lawn and Cutter wore a satisfied smile.
    Feeling extremely mellow from the sunshine, good food and fine brandy, Mallory accepted the gift of a bottle of Monsieur Villieu’s best before bidding her host and hostess goodbye and climbing into the car.
    Cutter followed a different route back to the château, one that wound away from the coast. As she had the day before, Mallory found herself gazing across vast orchards. Now, however, she nursed a new appreciation for the apples of lower Normandy. Her head lolled against the seat. The breeze teased her hair.
    Her mellow feeling dissipated somewhat when she noticed the time, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret a whole day spent roaming the French countryside…especially with a companion as relaxed and easygoing as Cutter.
     
    The château welcomed them home with windows gleaming gold in the afternoon sun and the roar of the sea loud against its cliffs. When Cutter pulled into the courtyard and came around to help her out, Mallory felt the sizzle again. It was there, arcing through the crisp fall air, tingling from the touch of his skin against hers.
    Her breath snagged. Her eyes locked with his. She couldn’t read the message in their cool gray depths, but she knew with everything female in her that Cutter had felt the heat, too.
    Now, what the heck would they do about it?
    The question was front and center in her mind as she returned Gilbért’s greeting and followed him inside. Halfway down the long hall, she spotted a folded newspaper lying atop a stack of mail. The newspaper was French and local, but the black-and-white picture on the front page stopped her in her tracks.

Chapter 7
    W hen Mallory came to an abrupt stop, Cutter was only a couple of paces behind her. He took a quick sidestep to avoid a collision while Gilbért turned in surprise at her involuntary groan.
    “Oh, nooo! ”
    The fuzzy warmth engendered by her day in the sun and the hours spent with Cutter evaporated on the spot. Her insides twisting, Mallory pointed to the newspaper lying atop the hall table.
    “It’s him.”
    The newspaper showed only a partial head-and-shoulders shot, just enough for her to identify the man who’d accosted her yesterday at Mont St. Michel. That was enough. She knew with absolute certainty that when she unfolded the newspaper, her photo would appear beside his.
    He must have seen her car float away and mouthed off to the people around him about the owner. Having such a notorious American lose her vehicle to