Free Stranded with a Spy by Merline Lovelace Page A

the cheat sheets I sent you, right?”
    “Right. Good thing you warned me the Calvados region is more known for its brandy than its wine.”
    “That came from Lightning. Evidently this Monsieur Villieu provides private stock for Nick’s restaurants. He said for you to confirm his order for the entire lot of 1989 Prestige blend, by the way.”
    Cutter was more of a beer-and-pretzels man than a brandy aficionado. If Nick Jensen wanted the entire stock of this stuff for his string of high-priced restaurants, though, it had to be something special.
     
    When Cutter followed the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee to the petite dining salon some time later, he found Mallory ensconced in one of the fan-backed wicker chairs. The mist was fast burning off the cliffs outside but Cutter didn’t spare the spectacular view a glance. His attention was centered on the woman slathering butter on a flaky croissant.
    “Good morning.”
    When she looked up, her smile was warm and welcoming and plowed right into him. “Good morning.”
    “How do you feel?”
    “Like a new woman.”
    He had to admit she looked like one, too. She wore the same outfit she’d had on last night: jewel-toned blouse, slim brown slacks, frou-frouey shoes. But she’d swept her hair up into a twist that showed the smooth, clean line of her neck and jaw.
    Her cheeks had regained their color, he noted. The gray tinge of exhaustion was gone. So was the wariness that had kept her voice cool and reserved. If she had lost sleep over a bungled exchange with Robert Walters, Cutter couldn’t see any sign of it.
    Filling a demitasse cup with coffee strong enough to substitute for roof tar, he carried the cup to the glass-topped wicker table. Mallory eyed the undiluted coffee with a raised brow.
    “Don’t you want some cream in that? It’s high-octane.”
    “No, thanks.”
    Cutter welcomed the jolt to his central nervous system. After Mike’s call, he needed it. While he ingested the caffeine, his breakfast companion nudged a basket of croissants and a small brown crock across the table.
    “Well, you have to try this apple butter. Madame Picard says it’s made from apples grown here in Normandy. After my first taste, I regretted every nasty word I muttered when I was stuck behind all those tractors hauling the fall harvest yesterday.”
    Cutter took advantage of the opening she’d just handed him to segue into his role. “That’s not all they make from apples around here. The vintner I’m going to visit this morning produces some of the world’s finest grape-based apple brandy.”
    “Grape-based apple brandy? Sounds almost like a contradiction in terms.”
    “It does, doesn’t it?” Tearing apart a still-warm roll, he loaded it with creamy butter. “The appointment is for ten-thirty, but I can slip that if we need more time to locate a notary.”
    “Oh,” she mumbled around a mouthful. “About that.”
    She flicked her tongue over her lower lip to capture a stray crumb. Cutter followed the movement with an intensity that annoyed the hell out of him.
    “I really don’t want to impose on you or your time. I’ll get Gilbért to drive me to town.”
    Not hardly, he thought. He wasn’t letting Ms. Dawes out of his sight.
    “No sense both of us driving that way.”
    He took a bite and felt his taste buds leap for joy. Swallowing, he stared at the other half of his croissant.
    “My God! This stuff is amazing.”
    Mallory had to grin at the expression on his face. He looked like a kid who’d just discovered a hidden stash of chocolate.
    “Told you,” she said smugly.
    When he took another bite, the play of his throat muscles drew her gaze. He was wearing the silky black turtleneck again, paired with tan pleated slacks and a leather belt holding his clipped-on cell phone. The turtleneck covered most of the scars, but enough remained visible to tug at Mallory’s heart.
    She could only imagine the agony he must have suffered when the bomb he’d told her about