Page 88 of A Wicked Game

He stabbed an accusing finger down onto the cream paper. “I knew it! The Crusoe map is different!” He glared up at her, his sallow skin waxy in the lamplight. “Why this is so?”

She cleared her throat. “I assume you’re referring to that archipelago there?”

He’d circled the southernmost island of the chain.

“Yes. Why does my map show two when your map shows five little islands?”

“Because I added some,” she said defiantly. “And I moved them all six miles to the east, for good measure.”

De Caen’s eyelid twitched. “And why would you do that, mademoiselle?”

His tone was so lethally quiet that Harriet’s rebelliousness quavered.

“Because that’s what the Admiralty paid me to do. We created false maps to lead you and your countrymen astray.”

De Caen’s cheeks grew mottled with suppressed anger. “Little bitch! Do you know how long I wasted, looking for—” He stopped abruptly, biting off his impulsive words, but Harriet raised her brows.

“For Napoleon’s gold?” she asked sweetly.

He glanced up, startled, and she enjoyed a brief moment of satisfaction at having surprised him, but when he grinned her stomach swooped in dread.

“Yes indeed. How do you know about that?”

She feigned a bravado she certainly didn’t feel. “The Admiralty knows all about it. As does your own government. I expect both of them have men out there looking for it already.”

De Caen’s lip curled. “They won’t find it. Only I know where to look.”

She sent a pointed glance down at his map, then met his eyes.

“Not anymore.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Harriet’s heart was pounding in her throat. Why on earth was she taunting him? She should be placating him, feigning ignorance, trying to get him to leave.

But a coldly logical part of her knew De Caen had no intention of letting them go. Like his deputy, Garonne, they knew too much. Panic started to trickle through her veins.

De Caen began to chuckle, even as he picked up the pistol from the counter. He wiped the corner of his eye as if genuinely amused.

“Ah,chérie. You have such fire. I regret that I must put it out.”

A flicker of movement from the back room snagged her attention and Harriet froze, as much in shock as by instinct; Father had pulled the dressings from his eyes. Over De Caen’s shoulder she saw him blink several times, as if growing accustomed to the light. He swung his head around to glare at De Caen’s back and rose silently from his chair, like some mythical sea monster rising from the deep.

Harriet’s stomach somersaulted. Convinced De Caen would notice the direction of her gaze, she whipped her head back around to look at him.

“Don’t shoot me!” Her voice was reedy with panic. “Please. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

De Caen pulled the hammer back with his thumb to cock the weapon. His eyes hardened as he pointed it at her chest. “I cannot take that risk.”

Harriet stared at the black hole at the end of the pistol. Should she push the barrel away? Dive behind the counter?

“Wait!” she shrieked, bringing her hands up in front of her as if they could, miraculously, stop the bullet. “You’re forgetting one thing.”

De Caen paused, momentarily diverted. “And what’s that?”

“My father!”

Harriet let her gaze flick behind him. De Caen half turned—just as Father swung the leather-bound copy ofRobinson Crusoeat his head.

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