For a moment Niema was so diverted and charmed by the phrase "delight myself" that she couldn't stop herself from smiling.
'Aha! I have achieved one goal already." He touched one finger to the corner of her smiling lips, "Your smile is as lovely as I remembered. Please say yes to dinner. My reputation is greatly exaggerated, I promise."
She searched his face, as if looking for the truth. Finally she said, a bit hesitantly, "I haven't dated since my husband-" She broke off and looked away.
"I understand you're a widow," he said. "Yes, I asked about you. I'm sorry for your loss. It has been . .. how long?"
Five. The word echoed in her brain, and this time the sadness that flashed across her face wasn't an act. Five long years. "Two years," she managed to say, her voice constricted. "Most people think that's long enough to grieve, but... it isn't."
His expression was somber. "I think the heart has its own calendar. You mustn't let anyone rush you, including me. I give you my word I would attach no expectations to a dinner together. It would just be a meal in pleasant company, no more. Or perhaps you would prefer lunch?"
She let herself waver, then said softly, "Yes, lunch sounds ..."
"Safer?" he suggested.
"More casual. Less like a date."
He chuckled. "I see. Then, Madame Jamieson, will you not go out to dinner with me? Let's just have lunch instead."
She smiled up at him. "That sounds very nice."
As soon as he was back in his town house, Ronsard placed a secure call to the villa. Cara answered immediately, though it was late, after one A.M.
"Consult that computer of yours," he said. "I want to know whatever you can find out about Niema Jamieson, from New Hampshire. She's a widow, a friend of the American ambassador, and she's visiting them now."
"How do you spell her name?"
Ronsard hesitated, then remembered what she had said about her mother modeling the name on 'Naomi.' "N-i-e-m-a," he said. "Late twenties, early thirties. Dark hair and eyes."
"Got it. When do you want this?"
"In the morning."
"I'll get right on it."
Ronsard hung up and paced slowly around his luxurious bedroom. It had been a long time since he had been so intrigued by a woman, but that didn't mean he was careless. If Niema Jamieson wasn't what she seemed, he'd know it soon enough. And if she was, then he looked forward to a pleasant chase and seduction. Most women could be had, eventually, and he doubted she would be any different.
He had forgotten how pleasurable it was to be the pursuer, to feel that triumphant thrill when she agreed to meet him for lunch. He laughed at himself; such a small victory, but he felt like a conqueror. He would put a satisfied smile on the widow's face yet.
She had been faithful to her husband's memory for two years. Such steadfastness was rare in his world. He found he respected her for that and envied her the love she must have known. Such a love had eluded him; he loved Mariette, of course, and Laure was his heart, but a sweeping, romantic love ... no, he hadn't known one. Passion, yes. Lust. Possession. But not love. He suspected he never would love anyone in such a manner, that he wasn't capable of that depth of emotion. Or perhaps he was simply too wary, too guarded, with too much at stake to let himself become vulnerable.
Not even for a woman like Niema Jamieson.
Chapter Fifteen
The telephone beside her bed rang at six A.M., jerking Niema out of a sound sleep. She rolled over and groped for the receiver. "Hello." She sounded as groggy as she felt.
She heard a stifled chuckle. "You certainly sound alert."
John. The sound of his voice did funny things to the pit of her stomach. She settled herself deeper into the pillow. "We social butterflies need our sleep."
"Has the fluttering attracted any attention?"
"It certainly has." She yawned. "Within minutes."
"Told you. We're amoebas."
"I hope this line is secure," she said in sudden alarm.
"If it isn't, then the Company isn't doing its job.
All lines into the embassy are secure, and I'm on a secure phone. Tell me everything about last night."
How did he know she'd met Ronsard last night? she wondered in annoyance. "Are you keeping tabs on me? How? Where are you?"
"Of course I'm keeping tabs on you," he said calmly. "You didn't think I'd bring you into this and just leave you on your own, did you? I'm nearby, for the moment."
And that was all he intended to tell her, she realized. Still, it was enough. Until she heard his voice, she hadn't realized how much she had missed him, missed the constant challenge of his presence. If he was nearby, that meant she had to be on her toes, because he could pop up at any second. She didn't want to step out of the shower, stark naked, and come face to face with him. On the other hand . . .
Whoa. She backed away from that thought without finishing it. Instead she began a recital of the previous night's events. "He followed me onto the patio and introduced himself and asked for a dance later. When we danced, he asked me out to dinner. I refused. We're having lunch today at one, at Le Cafe Marly. Do you know where that is?"
"It's in the Richelieu wing of the Louvre. It's where you go to see and be seen."
"And here I thought having lunch with him would be more discreet than dinner."
"Not at Cafe Marly. Why are you trying to be discreet?"
"If I'm this fine upstanding citizen and an old family friend of the ambassador's wife, it would seem more reasonable to at least worry about seeing an arms dealer."