Stranded with a Spy by Merline Lovelace Page B

the tides would make for a nice local news splash.
    Gilbért glanced at the photo before politely handing her the paper. “You know this man, mademoiselle?”
    “No, not really. I, uh, bumped into him yesterday at Mont St. Michel.”
    “It is tragique, how he dies.”
    “He’s dead?”
    “But yes. He falls down the stairs, there on the island.”
    Shocked, Mallory whipped open the folded paper. No mug shot of her, thank God, but the words American and mort leaped out from the caption below the photo.
    The recently deceased had been loud and boorish and uncouth. Mallory felt no particular regret at his demise, only surprise and a guilty relief that her name hadn’t been paired with his.
    “I guess that’s what happens when you combine steep steps and too much wine,” she commented.
    “Guess so,” Cutter replied from just behind her.
    His odd inflection brought Mallory’s head around. Disconcerted, she found his cool gray eyes narrowed on her instead of the photo.
    “Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t push him down any stairs, although I might have been tempted to if he’d pawed me one more time. In fact…”
    Her joking tone faded. Brows drawing together, she glanced from Cutter to the photo and back again.
    “In fact,” she said slowly, “the last time I saw the man, you were holding his head under water.”
    Shrugging, Cutter disclaimed all responsibility. “He was still in the horse trough, swearing a blue streak when I left him. Too bad the dunking didn’t sober him up.”
    Mallory’s sudden and very uncomfortable pinprick of doubt faded. She’d spent more than twenty-four hours in Cutter Smith’s company now. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so relaxed around—or been so attracted to—a man with his charm and rugged masculinity.
    It was the comfort level that made her dismiss her momentary doubt as ridiculous…and the attraction that kept her lingering in the hall after Gilbért had confirmed they’d dine in that evening and departed in his slow, stately tread.
    “About yesterday, when this guy grabbed me…”
    She saw the question in his eyes. He had to be wondering where she was going.
    “Yes?”
    “I, uh, could have been more grateful when you came to my rescue.”
    “I wasn’t looking for gratitude.”
    “I know.” Remembering how she’d had to force a single, grudging word of thanks, Mallory grimaced. “It’s just that…Well…I’ve become a little gun-shy around men lately.”
    Not to mention curt, suspicious and distrustful. She could do better. And Cutter certainly deserved better. He didn’t know it, but he’d given her an incredible gift today. The relaxing hours in his company, the lunch under the trees, the long drive in the sunlight, had loosened the anger that had tied her in such tight knots these past weeks.
    “Does that include me?” Cutter asked, hooking a brow.
    “Not any more.” The smile in her eyes matched the one in her heart. “Thanks for today, Monsieur Smith. I had a wonderful time. Calvados will be my brandy of choice from now on.”
    Mallory lifted a hand, aching to curve it over his cheek, but the no-grope rule worked both ways. She’d filed sexual harassment charges against a powerful legislator for inappropriate touching. In the process, she’d destroyed both her career and the warm spontaneity that had once been an integral part of her. The old Mallory might have completed the contact. The new Mallory hesitated.
    This time, though, the urge to touch was reciprocal. She could sense it with everything that was female in her. Still, she hesitated, too scarred by the ugliness of the past months to follow through. She’d collected almost as many wounds as Cutter, she realized with a catch in her throat, except hers were on the inside.
    Her hovering hand had started to drop when he resolved the matter by simply leaning forward. The warm skin of his cheek connected with her palm. His breath mingled with hers. She lifted her gaze,