Rendezvous (9781301288946) by Susan Carroll Page A

quite
catch. But Lazare pushed past Victor, stepping farther into the
room.
    As the candlelight fell full upon
Lazare's face, Sinclair bit back a startled exclamation. The left
side of that perfect countenance was a mass of thick red scar
tissue as though someone had attempted to scorch a grotesque map on
Lazare's flesh, the burn markings stretching back from his cheek to
the stump where his left ear should have been. His hair was shagged
in such a way as to flaunt the deformity.
    Victor hastened after Lazare, looking
agitated. "What are you doing here, Lazare? I told you there was no
need for you to attend the meeting tonight."
    "So you did. I thought you would be
finished by now."
    His gaze passed over Sinclair with as
much indifference as though Sinclair did not exist. He stalked
toward Belle, a strange passion firing beneath the pale lashes of
his silvery eyes. The malice emanating from the man was as palpable
as waves of heat pouring off a destructive flame. Sinclair had a
strange urge to wrench Belle out of the man's path.
    "The fair Isabelle," Lazare
drawled. "It has been a long time since I've had the
pleasure, ma chére ."
    "Not nearly long enough, Lazare." Belle
drew her cloak more tightly about herself, as though any contact
with the man would contaminate her. She turned toward Merchant, her
eyes blazing with accusation. "What is he doing here,
Victor?"
    Merchant did not seem able to meet her
gaze. He answered hesitantly. "Lazare. will also be accompanying
you on your mission."
    "Will he indeed! And when, pray tell,
did you plan to inform me of that fact?" Belle asked.
    Victor moistened his lips to answer,
but he was given no opportunity.
    "No!" Belle fairly shouted. "I won't
have it. I told you after the last time that I would never work
with Lazare again."
    The last time? Sinclair wondered. His
gaze flicked from Belle's pale face to Merchant's flushed features,
then to Lazare's impassive expression. Lazare was obviously another
agent in Merchant's employ, but he was not anyone whom Sinclair had
been informed about. He made a mental note to add Lazare's name to
his list of suspects.
    "You forget yourself, Madame Varens,"
Merchant blustered, trying to reassume a semblance of authority. "I
will decide who goes on these missions. Only I."
    But as Belle's lips thinned to a
stubborn line, Victor apparently thought better of his words and
adopted a more conciliatory manner. "You may have need of
Lazare—"
    "I would have more need of the devil,"
Belle snapped.
    Merchant darkened with anger, but he
controlled it. "There will be no trouble this time, I assure you.
Lazare fully understands that you are in charge. He pledges to take
his orders from you, is that not so, Lazare?"
    Lazare acknowledged the words with a
stiff bow. Belle's look of contempt showed clearly what she thought
of such a promise.
    "You must bury the past," Merchant
continued, "and give Lazare a second chance."
    " Oui ," Lazare said. He fixed Belle with
his compelling gaze. "You owe me that much, ma chére ."
    The low-spoken words had a curious
effect on Belle. She turned away in almost guilty
fashion.
    "Very well. Lazare may come," she said
at last, although the concession seemed wrung from her. "But the
first time that Lazare seeks to challenge my authority . . ." She
left the threat unfinished, but Lazare appeared to understand her
well enough.
    Without another word to anyone, she
pushed past Lazare and strode from the room, slipping through the
French doors into the garden beyond. Sinclair hesitated for a
moment, but neither Merchant nor Lazare looked likely to offer him
any explanations for the scene that had just taken place. Sinclair
knew Belle disliked questions, but this was one time he had to have
some answers. Bidding a curt farewell to the two men, Sinclair went
after her.
    She was halfway down the path to the
beach by the time Sinclair caught up with her, her expression as
stormy as the sea-tossed wind tangling her hair. Her breath