Silent Warrior: A Loveswept Classic Romance Read online

  “No. No real rhyme or reason. I think this will do.” She quickly stepped around him and headed to the front. Without turning, she said, “You know, you’re cute when you get impatient.”

  His footsteps paused on the cracked linoleum floor. “What did you say?”

  She began humming. Having a friend couldn’t hurt right now, she thought again. Trying to be McShane’s friend, however, might kill her. But as a distraction from her other worries, it was as good a ploy as any. He’d get used to the idea. Eventually.

  He caught up to her. “Cali—”

  “Bonjour … Monsieur Quéval?” she called out, deliberately cutting him off. One at a time she unloaded the items in her handbasket onto the narrow, worn linoleum counter.

  John leaned in and eased the backpack from the crook of her arm. She tightened her elbow to her side instinctively. He lifted a brow in silent question, making her cheeks warm a bit. She let go.

  “Sorry. Reflex. I guess you are one of the good guys.”

  He unzipped the bag, slid the binder inside, closed it, and slung it carefully over one shoulder. His gaze never left hers. “I have my moments.”

  His intent stare made her hands pause in mid-motion. Before she could comment, the proprietor made his grand entrance.

  Wiping his hands on the white lab coat he wore, Mr. Quéval shambled slowly to the counter. His gait was that of a large man with a very low center of gravity. Since he was short and wiry, it was almost comical to watch him. She’d talked with him several times and each time had been almost disappointed that his accent was a lilting native Creole and not the nasal Brooklyn twang that would have suited him perfectly.

  “Busy day?” she asked brightly.

  “Not particularly.”

  Cali smiled through gritted teeth. “Lucky us, then, to have your services all to ourselves.”

  “A little thick, don’t you think?”

  John’s whisper barely reached her ears as he bent to adjust the backpack. Still she noticed Mr. Quéval’s attention drift, seemingly unconcerned, to her partner.

  Quéval was second only to Eudora in the busybody department. Unfortunately, it was twice as hard to get information from him, which was to say impossible. John moved next to her. Go ahead, she wanted to say, I dare you to charm this man.

  She shifted back slightly, urging him forward. This she wanted to see. As if he’d read her thoughts, John shot her a devastating smile, which he smoothly shifted to include Quéval.

  Quéval smiled back.

  My oh my, Cali thought, resisting the urge to fan herself. So she’d underestimated him. Again. In this case it was a bet well worth losing. Boy, to be on the receiving end of that lightning-bolt smile on a regular basis …

  “Bonjour,” John said, extending his hand. “John McShane. I’m a photographer with an American television station.” He spoke in French. The American version, but close enough to the island dialect to impress both her and Quéval, even if he didn’t show it. Cali just barely caught her mouth from dropping open at his surprising linguistic ability.

  The older man ignored his outstretched hand and just sniffed. Cali tucked her chin to keep from laughing and made a production out of emptying the rest of the basket. Smart-ass. She should be more upset that he could blow their only chance at uncovering Nathan’s invisible notes. She doubted he failed often, and she had a front-row seat. She really shouldn’t be enjoying herself.

  She set the empty basket on the floor, stifling another smile.

  She supposed she should rescue him, try to salvage what was left of their chances. John spoke before the thought became deed.

  He gracefully tucked his hand in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Actually,” he said, still in French, staring at the note as if reminding himself of their contents. “I’m here on an advance scouting shoot.”

  The shop owner looked alarmed and bored at the same time. Only Quéval could pull that one off.

  “You shoot things?”

  “With a camera,” John said.

  Quéval looked only bored now. He turned to Cali’s purchases, slowly lifting each one, looking carefully for the price—which she was certain he’d long memorized—and keying it into an old-fashioned cash register with precise punches.

  The old McShane charm wouldn’t work with this old fox. John could learn the island dialect. He couldn’t not be an American.

  “I’m with the Worldwide Television Network,” he persisted.

  Cali thought about kicking him in the shins to shut him up. His easy banter sounded so natural. He also sounded totally sincere. He must have done very well in super-spy school, she thought cynically, beginning to wonder if that smile was only pulled out for job-related purposes.

  “You may know of us. We produce that soap opera, Many Loves, Many Lives.”

  Looking away, Cali rolled her eyes, then stepped forward. Enough was enough. She would have gladly handed him more rope to hang himself with just for the sake of having future ammunition, but there was no time. She froze in mid-step when Quéval dropped the sunscreen. He attempted to cover his interest, but it was too late.

  “So, what is your interest here?” Quéval asked.

  Cali’s gaze swung to the shopkeeper. He still sounded as bored and uncaring as he looked. But Cali knew better. Not only had he willingly invited conversation, he’d done so in flawless English.

  John grinned easily. “We film some of our episodes overseas. My job is to fly around, find suitable locations, take some advance shots, and send them back to the main office in New York City.”

  “You want to make Many Loves, Many Lives here in Aleria?” All pretense of boredom was gone.

  Cali leaned back against the counter and folded her arms. “I bow before the master,” she muttered. But no one was listening to her.

  “Well, see, I sort of got myself into a bind. I became so excited when I stumbled onto your village here that I went a little crazy and I don’t have enough chemicals to process all my shots.” He moved over and slung an arm around Cali’s shoulders. “Madame Ellis was kind enough to tell me all about your studio.”

  She tried to mask her surprise at the unexpected physical contact. She aimed a wide smile at Monsieur Quéval. “I knew you were the one man who could help him.” John’s fingers tightened slightly. He moved closer, bumping his hip along her waist.

  “You want me to develop your film?” Quéval asked.

  “Actually, I was hoping I could rent your darkroom for an hour or two,” John replied smoothly.

  That set Quéval back. Wariness and suspicion entered his eyes once again.

  John reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet.

  Shaking his head, Quéval raised a warning finger. “American dollars—”

  “I have francs.”

  Cali was getting used to being held against McShane’s big warm body, telling herself she shouldn’t feel each contact point so intensely, but a part of her was still focused on the transaction. First, island dialect. Now francs.

  “Magna cum laude in super-secret spy school,” she said under her breath. “Either that or you were a helluva Boy Scout.”

  “What was that?” John turned slightly, angling her against his body far too naturally.

  “Boy Scouts?” Quéval questioned:

  Cali smiled brightly. His smooth moves might irritate her, but there was too much riding on this to blow it. “I said, ‘Boy, scouting can be hell.’ ”

  He looked skeptical, but John didn’t give him a chance to think on it.

  “My budget isn’t unlimited,” he said, steering the conversation back to the one subject guaranteed to hold Quéval’s interest. He uncurled a wad of colorful bills. “But I think I can pay your price.”

  Cali almost snorted at the cupidity dripping from the shopkeeper’s tongue. Yes, her life was in danger, yes, her adrenal glands had surpassed themselves in production days ago. But she was actually enjoying the rush. With McShane at
her side, she felt … invincible.

  She directed her attention from Quéval to John. His winning smile said he was quite used to getting what he wanted and that he was quite willing to pay for it.

  Yet she felt his muscles grow tighter as he awaited Quéval’s decision. Her hand crept to his waist. She pressed her fingers into his side. It wasn’t until he squeezed her shoulder in return that she realized she’d tried to reassure him. It pleased her more than a little to know that she could.

  Quéval named a price. Cali gulped. John relaxed against her, though she was certain only she knew it.

  He stuck out his hand. “Merci beaucoup.”

  Mr. Quéval’s hand remained palm up. She felt John stifle a sigh and again felt the urge to laugh. He removed his arm from her shoulder and peeled off a large number of bills.

  She frowned at the sudden feeling of abandonment. She’d adapted to his touch, his close proximity, far too easily. His arm snaked smoothly around her waist once again as he spoke. She moved closer, fitting against him. All part of the act, she told herself.

  Liar.

  John went to place the money in the shopkeeper’s outstretched hand, but withheld it at the last second. “Is the darkroom available now by any chance?”

  It was obvious Quéval didn’t like being cornered so smoothly, but his eyes never left the stack of bills hovering over his fingertips. Greed won. He gave a sharp nod. “Oui.” He all but snatched the money as soon as it grazed his skin, swiftly counting it.

  John’s easy smile had never so much as flickered during the entire transaction. There was no hint of triumph, just genuine appreciation.

  “Thanks.” John turned and stepped toward to the end of the counter. “I’ll leave everything as I find it.”

  In one smooth move, Mr. Quéval pocketed the money, shifted his attention to Cali, and said, “That will be one hundred twenty-five francs, please.”

  Momentarily nonplussed, Cali just stared at him. Right. Her purchases. John didn’t shift so much as a hair, but Cali sensed he was enjoying the moment immensely. Valiantly striving to match his easy grace, she pasted on her most sincere smile and slipped out from under John’s arm to dig in her backpack.

  She handed over the plain green-and-white bills, smiling sweetly as he grumbled, “American.” She moved back to John’s side, looked over her shoulder, and said, “You can just box them up for me and set them by the door. Thanks.”

  She had to duck her head to hide her smug grin at Quéval’s affronted sniff … even as he lifted a box from behind the counter.

  “Always pushing it.” John’s voice barely touched her ears.

  She turned her head slightly, placing her mouth close to his jaw. “I’m a quick study.”

  “I got us a darkroom, didn’t I?”

  John pushed open the door, but Cali stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Where in the world did you come up with the television angle?”

  John pulled Cali back a step and pointed to the back room. A small color television was blaring; the people on the screen were familiar American actors, their speech obviously dubbed into French. It was a soap opera.

  “As the World Turns.”

  She looked at him. “So?”

  “It comes on right after Many Loves, Many Lives. He didn’t come to the desk until it was over.”

  “Sometimes you’re so good, you scare me.”

  He gifted her with a bright flash of a smile, then ushered her into the lab. He closed the door, locked it, tested the lock, then turned to her. “Show time.”

  She was prepared for smugness, had a retort all ready, but gone was the smiling, affable man. The man before her was all business. From his “no fooling around” stance, to his cool “let’s get down to it” gray eyes.

  Cali frowned, the unease and tension crawled back into her.

  He paused. “Something wrong?”

  She pulled the backpack off and unzipped it. “You make a great Indiana Jones, but I’m no good as Joan Wilder.”

  “You’re mixing your adventure movies.”

  She pulled out the notebook and placed it on the counter next to them. “Sue me.”

  John stepped closer, pushed the notebook aside, and cupped her shoulders. Cali stiffened.

  “Don’t fall apart on me now. You’re doing better than most people would in your position.”

  His praise, faint as it was, meant far too much. “Gee, thanks. I feel so much better now.”

  He looked affronted. Actually, he looked confused and a little bit hurt, but that couldn’t be.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sincere. “I just don’t do real well on weeklong rollercoaster rides. I want to turn in my E ticket now if you don’t mind.” She’d been aiming for flippant. Instead she’d simply sounded defeated. Wonderful Cali, inspire even more respect. The man is risking his life for you, after all. Get with it. She straightened her spine.

  His fingers dug into her shoulders, then began a slow massage. “You ready to take a peek inside that notebook?” His tone was even, but his touch was soothing. And somewhere in those eyes was something very much like tenderness.

  She stepped away from his touch. Maybe taking on McShane as a friend wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  She pasted a determined look on her face. “Yes. Once we know what it is we’re dealing with, then maybe we’ll know who the good guys are. Call them in, hand over this stuff, arrange a little short-term protection while they round up the bad guys, and”—she snapped her fingers—“voilà, all better.”

  “Cali—”

  She lifted a hand. “It’s my fantasy, I worked hard devising one I could believe in for more than thirty seconds. Let me hold on to it for at least another hour or two, okay?”

  John reached out and ran a finger down the side of her jaw.

  There was tenderness in John McShane.

  She told herself that what she needed was his strength. He’d been her anchor during the most turbulent period of her life. She realized now that had he shown her any tenderness then, she’d have fallen completely apart. What she’d needed was his solid-as-a-rock support, his unfailing invulnerability. A man impervious to any weakness.

  The man touching her now was not remotely weak. However, she wasn’t so sure about the vulnerability.

  It scared her to think he might need an occasional anchor too. It scared her to think he might need that from her. It terrified her to realize she wanted to give it to him. If he let her.

  She lifted her hand and covered his. His skin was dry and warm, his steady pulse far too reassuring. “I do appreciate all you’re doing for me, John.” She dropped her hand and stepped away. Her smile was tremulous but real. “Ready whenever you are.”

  John looked as if he were about to say something, but instead turned off the bright overhead then flipped on the red safelight.

  She scanned the room, refamiliarizing herself with the process and equipment. It had been too long. “I’m not sure I remember enough.” She handed him the notebook.

  He locked eyes with her, the red light enhancing the sudden ferocity in his strangely transparent-looking gaze.

  “This may not work,” he said. “If it doesn’t—”

  “Then the pages could really be blanks. Let’s not think about—”

  “You have to think about it, Cali. If there is no help here, grilling Eudora isn’t really a great alternative. The people after you are too well funded, too connected, though I’ll be damned if I can figure out how. We don’t have time. For all we know, they are on their way here right now. If we can’t decipher Nathan’s notes here on Martinique, then one or both of us will have to look elsewhere.”

  The idea of him leaving her panicked her. “I go where you go.” She’d sounded more forceful than she’d liked, but if her sudden vehemence surprised him, he didn’t show it.

  “Fine.” He turned his complete attention to the notebook. Subject closed. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved that he wouldn’t abandon her to ta
ke up the fight alone at the first sign of a problem, or annoyed that he’d so easily dismissed her concerns.

  Shoving the whole mental merry-go-round aside, she stepped over to the trays, looking at the rows of chemicals. Bleach, stabilizers, potassium iodide wash, conditioner. The French labels translated fairly easily. Quéval was no amateur. To her surprise, she found the processes coming back to her as she went over all the equipment. “Like riding a bike.” She snagged some graduated beakers and went about setting everything up as best as she could, then stepped up behind John and watched over his shoulder. He carefully flipped open the rings and slid out the first blank page.

  She checked the temperature of the liquid, realizing as she did so that she had no idea if what was appropriate for processing film worked on invisible ink. “We can skip the first few steps since this isn’t film. Even so, the way we’re doing this is a bit unorthodox.”

  “I’m not sure it matters.”

  “We’re about to find out.” Satisfied as she could be, she took one sheet and slipped it into the first tray.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Be patient.” But she felt her own pulse rocketing faster. She willed her hands to be steady as she agitated the tray to keep the developer evenly distributed. She gently rapped the tray on the table to dislodge bubbles that were attaching to the surface.

  “There’s something there!” She hadn’t really let herself believe it until that moment. She leaned over, squinting. Some of it was handwritten margin notes, but the bulk of it was typed. It all glowed an odd yellow, making it almost impossible to decipher in the red light.

  She glanced around. Quéval kept an orderly darkroom. She located what she sought almost immediately. John had nudged into her spot.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a small magnifier. “See if this helps.”

  “Can you make any of it out?”

  He was silent just long enough for her to wonder if he’d forgotten she was there.

  “Yes. I can.”

  His tone was flat and emotionless. Normal, in other words. And yet she stilled, a sense of dread creeping over her.

  “Tell me, John. What is it?”