French Kiss

  Yuri gave Lisa a sharp look. “You actually were telling the truth.”

  “It was my forty-five,” Raf murmured, his smile malicious.

  “I told you I was telling the truth,” Lisa murmured, ignoring Raf and giving Yuri the most sweet, sad-eyed smile Nicky had seen outside of the movie Old Yeller. As a kid, she always cried buckets when Old Yeller died.

  “She’s playing you for a sucker again,” Raf sneered.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Yuri snapped.

  “I’m soooo sorry, darling,” Lisa murmured, managing to look both glamorous and childlike in her summer dress and sandals, her limpid gaze fully on Yuri. “You don’t know how awful I feel.”

  Try ten times ten more and you’ll know how awful I feel, Nicky thought, hoping she would be lucky enough to come out of this little visit alive. From every freaking angle, that trip to Paris had been nothing but trouble. Well—except for getting Jordi back. But other than that, it had been a major catastrophe. Not only was she in a serious blue funk over some guy who didn’t give a damn about her, she was caught up in some major real-life danger with CRIMINALS WITH GUNS!

  If she survived these gangsters, she was going to express some serious displeasure to a certain Johnny Patrick who had had the poor judgment to marry a thieving bitch like Lisa Jordan. She wouldn’t be in this pickle if the woman could keep from stealing things. For sure, she wouldn’t be in this pickle if the woman could keep from stealing from people WITH GUNS!

  She didn’t appreciate being awakened by a gun to her head. She didn’t like being accused of stealing something, when she’d never stolen anything in her life. And if she wasn’t afraid of having her head blown off, she’d say as much to these people cluttering up her small bedroom under the eaves. “My purse is on the chair in the front hall. It’s green,” she said instead, hoping to get them out of her house and out of her life without bloodshed. Hers in particular.

  “Why don’t you show us,” Raf murmured, his gaze trained on her breasts.

  Shit. She should have worn something less revealing to sleep in—like flannel pajamas instead of panties and her Simpson’s T-shirt, which was a little too small after a thousand washings.

  “Get the purse,” Yuri ordered. His gaze flicked to Lisa. “We’ll figure this out later. Although, you shouldn’t have taken the ring in the first place.”

  “I was just playing a game, darling. It was silly, and I apologize.”

  “You’ve caused me a helluva lot of trouble,” he growled.

  One of the most beautiful women in the world gazed at Yuri and said, softly, “Maybe I could make it up to you somehow…”

  “Get a room you two,” Raf grumbled.

  Preferably, far, far away, Nicky thought. And with the hope of expediting their departure, Nicky rose from her bed. Stay calm, she warned herself, knowing she would have to ease past Raf who was very close. Don’t show fear. With luck, this could be over soon.

  She tried not to flinch as Raf patted her bottom when she moved past him. She just kept walking. Don’t run, slow down, she told herself, as she left her bedroom and entered the outside corridor. Raf’s gaze was on her, she could tell. Just ignore him. Walk slowly. Fortunately, Yuri seemed to be in charge.

  Soon, she was at the bottom of the stairs and moving across the foyer. It took only seconds to rummage through her purse and come up with the red leather ring box. “Here,” she said, holding it out, hoping Yuri would take it from her instead of Raf, with his frightening eyes. And then please go, she silently prayed.

  Yuri plucked it from her fingers. “We’re done here.” Without another glance for Nicky, he nodded at Lisa and reached for the front door latch. “After you, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” Raf murmured.

  Nicky’s heart sank.

  “There’s no time for shagging, dammit,” Yuri growled. “We have to deliver the ring. Come back later if you want.”

  How about if she wanted, Nicky resentfully thought, cursing Johnny Patrick for introducing her to this violent underworld. Maybe she’d have to move—like tomorrow. Or sic the FBI or CIA on Yuri and Raf, if either were actually worth a damn.

  “I’ll be back,” Raf murmured, his gaze slowly traveling down Nicky’s body, then up again, coming to rest on her breasts. His mouth twitched into a wicked smile, and his gaze finally lifted to meet hers. “Keep that cunt warm for me, babe.”

  Nicky was holding her breath, her heart was beating so loudly she was sure everyone could hear. But no matter how much the rational part of her brain told her to stay calm, look calm, don’t show fear, she couldn’t force herself to actually breathe.

  Not until the front door closed.

  Gasping like a drowning person, she gulped in enough air to restore her lung function, then slowly exhaled and literally shook despite the fact that the morning sun was streaming in her foyer windows, the birds were singing outside, and a beautiful summer day was beginning. Immune to the beauty of the day, her knees suddenly turned to rubber, and simultaneously hyperventilating and sobbing, she crumpled to the floor. She’d never experienced hysteria. She’d always been levelheaded. But she’d never had a gun pressed to her head before either, so maybe she was allowed to play the swooning Victorian lady just this once.

  Breathe in, breathe out—slowly, slowly… count your blessings and Yuri’s sense of responsibility to deliver some ring. Thank God. Although, if Lisa Jordan could have kept her sticky fingers off of other people’s things, none of this would have happened.

  Her rising anger at having become involved in something she never should have been involved in, brought her sobs to an end sooner rather than later, and with her equilibrium marginally recovered, and her sense of umbrage reaching critical mass, she picked herself off the floor and marched into her study.

  Dammit, she had a phone call to make!

  Fucking A she did.

  She had a few choice words to deliver to the man who had put her in this high-risk, highly dangerous position! Maybe more than a few!

  And this time she wasn’t worried about being shot down.

  She was so pissed, this time she’d be the one doing the shooting.

  * * *

  As though god had decided she hadn’t been suitably chastised yet, her phone suddenly rang. And guess who it was? At fucking six in the morning.

  There was no way she couldn’t answer, especially after having talked to Belle last night.

  She picked up the phone on the fourth ring, just before the voice mail kicked in. “Hi, Mom. It’s early, so if I sound weird, I’m just sleepy.” She needed an up-front excuse, in case she lost it somewhere in the conversation with her heart still beating at triple time. With her near-death experience still fresh in her mind.

  “I thought it was ten already out there.”

  “Other way around, Mom. We’re two hours behind.” She said this every time her mother called.

  “Oh, dear—well, as long as you’re up,” her mother went on in the breathless way she had when she wanted to make sure she got her message across, “I just wanted to say that Isabelle told me you went to France and had the most wonderful time. Your clients were just the nicest people. So I don’t have to worry for another second that you hadn’t answered your phone for days. I just wanted to say we’re glad you’re back home, darling.”

  At the word Isabelle, Nicky’s heart had practically stopped, even though it was going a hundred miles an hour. She was afraid her sister had squealed on her. But Belle had put out a great cover story instead. “It’s good to be home, Mom, but can I call you back later? I have to get to work early this morning.” She wasn’t up to a long conversation with her mother. Not when she wanted to lash out at some celebrity she knew for his bad choice in a wife.

  “You’re working too hard, sweetheart. All work and no play— you know what they say…”

  If her mother only knew the extent of her recent play, she’d blush to her dyed roots. “It’s just an early client this on
e morning, Mom,” Nicky lied. “I’ll call back tonight, I promise.”

  “Not tonight, darling. Your dad and I have to go to Mabel and Bill Carlson’s fiftieth wedding anniversary at the Legion. They’re having prime rib. You’d love it; all your old friends are coming with their parents and grandparents. Practically the whole town will be there. I’ll bet you’re sorry right now you’re way out in San Francisco,” she said brightly.

  “Yeah, Mom, San Francisco can’t hold a candle to Black Duck.”

  “That’s why we’re such a tourist area, darling—especially for bear hunting.”

  Sarcasm was always wasted on her mother. “Tourism helps the economy, that’s for sure,” Nicky pleasantly agreed.

  “We miss you, honey, and not just for Mabel’s anniversary party. Do think about coming home for a visit soon.”

  “I will, Mom,” Nicky said dutifully. “As soon as I can. You could come visit me.”

  “Your father’s bridge group is having some tournament that lasts for God knows how long, and then everyone’s going into high gear with the fall season, and the Christmas trees all needing to be shipped out early in November. Maybe after that, your dad and I will come visit you. Oh, I forgot, Dad won a cruise at a drawing at the feed mill. I think we have to go on that next.”

  Her mother always blamed her dad for their busy social life, although she was the prime impetus behind every function they attended. Her mother thrived on small-town living. “Look, Mom, I’ll be home for Thanksgiving for sure. I’ll see you all then.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, darling. We’ll have the sleigh out for you and the pond cleared off for skating and that favorite kind of what is it—some special vodka you like. Your dad orders it from the liquor store for you.”

  “Sounds good, Mom, but I really have to go. Gotta make money.”

  “If only that awful boy hadn’t taken all your money, you wouldn’t have to work so hard,” she said with annoyance. “I still think you should have pressed charges!”

  If only they could have A) found Theo in Bangkok, and B) found him before he’d spent all her money on good times, she might have thought about pressing charges. Oh, yeah, the U.S. and Thailand probably didn’t have an extradition treaty, either. “You’re right, Mom. I should have pressed charges. Gotta go, though. Have fun at the Legion tonight, and give Mabel and Bill my best.”

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow—tell me again what the time difference is—and I’ll let you know how the party went.”

  “Call anytime. I’m always up.” For instance this morning, she’d had a real early wakeup call.

  “Oh, dear—aren’t you sleeping? Your uncle Milt had insomnia, but then he drank. You’re not drinking are you, sweetheart? Are you taking your vitamins and eating plenty of green vegetables?”

  “Everything’s good, Mom, I’m sleeping like a baby, I haven’t had a drink in a month, and I eat as many greens as a rabbit,” she lied. “But I really have to go now.”

  “You have such a busy life! I don’t know how you do it. Go, go, go, every minute. But I know, I know, you have to. Have a nice day, darling!”

  “You too, Mom.”

  * * *

  Nicky's adrenaline was still revving big-time as she hung up the phone—what with her recent visit by the slime-meisters of the underworld and then having to lie, lie, lie to her mother.

  She should probably count to ten or twenty, maybe even a hundred before she made that phone call to Johnny. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, fifty-one hundred. Fuck it.

  With nostrils flaring, she picked up the receiver and angrily punched in Johnny's unlisted number, which he’d given her in a weak moment.

  Thirty-two

  “Don’t say anything, just listen,” Nicky snapped as Johnny sleepily answered the phone. “And when I’m finished,” she said, her voice rising into the shriek zone, “I want a groveling apology, or maybe a thousand groveling apologies. Do you FUCKING UNDERSTAND?”

  “Gotcha.” He’d not risen so far in the world of entertainment without knowing how to deal with temperamental artist types. His voice was smooth as glass.

  “And I don’t need any glib replies like that, either,” Nicky screamed. “Do you know what JUST HAPPENED TO ME? Do you know who just broke into my house and rousted me from a dead sleep, put a gun to my head, and fucking SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME?”

  Johnny sat bolt-upright in bed, his adrenaline beginning to course through his veins, because he had a pretty good idea who she was talking about. “Are they gone?” he asked.

  “Yes, no thanks to you! And no thanks to your lying, thieving ex, who wouldn’t know how to tell the truth if the fucking Spanish Inquisition had her on the rack!”

  “What did they want?” No longer concerned with appeasement, his voice was curt as he thrust the covers aside.

  “Little Miss Kleptomaniac apparently didn’t just take the black pearls, she took some stupid ring from this Yuri guy! And the bitch dumped the box into my purse on the way to the airport!”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.” Johnny was out of bed and striding toward his closet.

  “It’s too late for the fucking cavalry,” Nicky bristled.

  “Too bad, I’m coming. Stay put. Lock your doors.” Each word was crisp and decisive. “Are you upstairs or downstairs?” He stepped into a pair of jeans.

  “Downstairs.”

  “Go upstairs with your cell phone; give me the number. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

  She should say no. She should tell him to go to hell. She should spurn his too-little, too-late help with bitter indignation. “Make it sooner,” she said instead, because she needed someone to tell her everything was going to be alright. Preferably someone who carried handguns in duffel bags under the seat of his car.

  “I’m so damned sorry to involve you in any of this,” he murmured, as though he could read her emotional shift across the lines. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Now, give me your cell number, lock the doors, and go upstairs. Okay?”

  Jeez, now she knew what it felt like when the cavalry really did come to your rescue. The man was a fucking virtuoso with the finesse of a diplomat and the macho assurance of a neanderthal.

  She could practically hear the bugles sounding the charge.

  “Are you there?” he whispered, the concern in his voice vibrating over the miles.

  She blew out a breath, all the adrenaline draining from her veins. “Kinda.”

  “I need your cell number,” he said in the tone of voice you’d use to coax a kitten down from a tree.

  Some delayed reaction seemed to be setting in, her brain turning to mush, her focus in chaos. It took two tries to get the number right.

  “Hang up now,” he said, real softly, worried she might fall apart before he got there. “Lock up. Go upstairs.” He pronounced the words slowly. “I’ll take care of everything from now on.”

  Now, that was confidence, she thought, hanging up the phone.

  The kind of confidence that could take a man to the top.

  Sort of where he was, come to think of it.

  Which made her feel a whole lot better. That was the kind of can-do attitude she needed to hear to help her stop imagining a thousand worst-case scenarios.

  Yep. She definitely felt as though her life was improving. Like maybe it could actually return to normal. Like maybe she wouldn’t have to move after all. Like maybe she wasn’t feeling as mad at him as she did before.

  Was he good at just about everything, or what?

  * * *

  The second Johnny set down the receiver, he found his cell phone and scrolled down his directory to a number under the listing: Malibu.

  It wasn’t a California number though. It was an international number, and as he hit the call button, he pulled a T-shirt from a dresser drawer.

  When someone picked up on the other end, Johnny said, “I need a favor.”

  The conversation was short, cryptic, no names were mentioned.
r />   “I’ll have a driver at the airport to pick you up,” Johnny said after exchanging the briefest of comments. “I appreciate your help.”

  Then he pulled the T-shirt over his head, slipped on some sandals, wrote a note for Vernie, and, dropping it on the kitchen table on his way out, sprinted for his car.

  Thirty-three

  After setting a personal speed record, Johnny pulled up to the curb in front of Nicky’s house and gave her a call on his cell as he swung out of his Lamborghini. “I’m outside,” he said.

  By the time he reached the porch, she was standing in the open doorway.

  He should have censored his comment, but the thought of her half-undressed in that way-too-small Simpsons T-shirt and panties with them wasn’t conducive to self-censorship. “They saw you like that?” His voice was sharp as a knife, his scowl unmistakable.

  “I’m very well. Thanks for asking,” she tartly replied, not in the mood for any more male libido working overtime after Raf’s loathsome overtures. Really, if Johnny didn’t get a little nicer real quick, her good mood was going to go south.

  “Sorry. Strike that last remark. I’m fucking groveling, okay?”

  Groveling was good. He was immediately exonerated.

  “I couldn’t be more sorry, babe. Really.”

  Definitely a man with a golden tongue.

  A second later, he’d leaped up the stairs and was pushing her back inside. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” His smile was up close and personal, as he shut the door behind him. “But, what can I say? You’re just too damned hot for your own good.” She may or may not have heard him—something about hot. He was standing too close. All she could think about was throwing her arms around him, clinging to him with a stranglehold, and declaring her undying love. It must be nerves. She must still be hysterical. Even thinking the word love about a man like Johnny was pure insanity.