French Kiss

  It looked as though this tree house project might be sunny skies as far as the eye could see.

  Fingers crossed.

  Four

  The next morning when Nicky arrived on-site, the pattern for the days to come was set. Johnny Patrick was there to greet her (with both Jordi and Betsy that first morning), and after a brief conversation concerning the construction schedule and some friendly comments to the crew, he disappeared into his studio.

  Jordi wasn’t so reclusive. She was, in fact, the complete opposite of her father, following Nicky around, continually asking questions, her curiosity about every facet of the construction more adult than juvenile. On days when some difficult design element was taking form, or there were questions only Nicky could answer, she’d stay at the tree house for more lengthy periods.

  They’d respected the site, doing the least possible excavation in order to ensure the integrity of the hillside and old-growth trees. The design itself was an organic concept of cantilevered levels, suspended from a minimum of large timbers and steel guvlines, the delicate structure giving the appearance of a bird about to take flight. The engineering was complex, but that was the beauty of the design—the experimental and pragmatic coalescing into a single goal.

  On occasion, if her schedule allowed, Nicky would join Jordi for lunch. Maria’s cooking was definitely an added incentive.

  On even rarer occasions, Johnny would join them for lunch.

  Nicky thought it might have something to do with the hand-rolled tortillas and lime-marinated snapper that Maria made on Tuesdays. Maria may have come from Hawaii, but she’d learned the art of fine Mexican cuisine somewhere, and apparently Nicky wasn’t the only one who appreciated her expertise.

  Even the wine sangria she served was out of this world, and in Nicky’s opinion, that was hard to do with sangria.

  On those infrequent times when Johnny joined them, Jordi carried most of the conversation. Her father would speak if spoken to, but was generally reserved. But not in an intimidating way, Nicky decided, although it might be that she was used to a father and brother who mostly let others talk. With Jordi around, however, no one had to worry about keeping the conversation going. She was an outgoing, gregarious child.

  As the construction proceeded, Nicky and Jordi enjoyed an increasingly easy camaraderie. She and Jordi had just clicked, and they’d taken to having a tea party from time to time just to take a break in the afternoon. Nicky collected tea sets, so it wasn’t a question of indulging a child. She was enjoying herself as much as Jordi.

  Johnny had come out of his studio one day to find Nicky and his daughter laughing hysterically over a SpongeBob SquarePants joke, and at their invitation joined them. He soon became the object of their teasing as he tried to manipulate the tiny teacups with his large hands. He even drank several thimblefuls of tea, although he wasn’t a tea drinker, because Jordi was having so much fun.

  “Mommy drinks stuff from teacups, but it’s not always tea,” Jordi announced blandly. “I know it’s something else, ’cause she won’t let me have any.”

  A sudden silence fell.

  “Maybe your mom doesn’t know you like tea that much,” Johnny quickly noted. “I’ll tell her you do next time I talk to her.”

  Jordi rolled her eyes. “I’m not a baby, Dad.”

  “You know, I bought the most beautiful tea set in Japan. Why don’t I bring it next time I come?” Nicky suggested, undertaking a politic shift in conversation. “The set was made at a monastery that’s eight hundred years old.”

  “No kidding? Wow!”

  “We can pretend we halfway understand the Japanese tea ceremony.” Nicky smiled. “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “I’ll help out,” Johnny offered. “I have a friend who’s a master of the art, so I’ve sat through one or two.” Or one or two hundred actually. His friend Kazuo had been a fanatic about tea ceremonies at one time.

  “Do I know him?” Jordi asked. “Has he been over?”

  “Uh-uh. He lives in Japan now. I knew Kazuo when we both lived in L.A. —before you were born.”

  “Can we do the tea ceremony thing tomorrow?” Jordi looked from her father to Nicky. “Can we? It sounds super-fun!”

  Her father always said yes to her, and today was no exception. “It’s okay with me, if it’s okay with Nicky.”

  Johnny was giving her a look that said she should agree. “Tomorrow sounds fine to me,” she said. “I’ll make sure I bring my tea set.”

  Five

  The next afternoon when Nicky stopped by, she found two black Mercedes pulled up to the door—as right up to the base of the entrance stairs.

  Things didn’t look quite right.

  And apparently for good reason, she realized after seeing Maria standing fixed in the open doorway, a suitcase in her hand and tears streaming down her face.

  Jumping from her car, Nicky ran up the steps and took the suitcase from Maria, although the older woman seemed not to notice. Bending low to meet Maria’s vacant gaze, Nicky said, “Is there something I can do to help? Are you going somewhere? Could I drive you?”

  Nothing.

  The housekeeper was in a trance.

  Figuring she’d interrupted some family drama that was no business of hers, Nicky was about to set the suitcase down and continue on to the tree house site in back, when Johnny Patrick’s voice rang down through the entrance hall from the second floor. Looking up, she saw him racing down the massive curved staircase, flanked by two men who looked like bodyguards. Black T-shirts, black slacks, dark glasses, hair cut so short their skulls gleamed, and hulk bodies.

  “Let me know as soon as you find out when they took off. If they’re on their way to Paris”—he looked at one of the men, who nodded—“then we’ll be right behind. Get the pilots out to the airfield. We’ll meet them there in an hour. We need Lisa’s flight plan. Pay whomever you have to, to get it. Fucking loose cannon addict. She can’t stay off the dope. A half hour now,” he said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll see you out there. Oh, crap— we need someone who speaks French, too, someone who can be discreet. The last thing I want are the tabloids nosing around.”

  As Nicky stepped out of the way of the two burly men racing out the door, Johnny saw her for the first time. “You speak French, don’t you?” Familiar with making things happen in an industry that could find itself out of fashion overnight, he reverted to form, intent on making things happen his way right now. “You said your grandmother spoke French to you.” The subject had come up one luncheon when they had debated various French wines and their appellations.

  “I also said my French accent was pretty quirky.” Her grandmother’s French Canadian patois was essentially eighteenth century. And if she needed another excuse not to go, people who traveled with bodyguards made her real, real apprehensive.

  “Got a passport?”

  Apparently quirky hadn’t cut it. “I do, but—”

  “Look, I’ll make it worth your while. We’re going to Paris. I need someone who speaks French to come with me—someone I trust.”

  “I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I mean… I have crews working and an office to run and clients—well… let’s face it, screaming at me every day.”

  “How about fifty grand—a hundred—fuck, I don’t care! Don’t you have an office manager?”

  “Well, yes… but.”

  “They took Jordi,” he said, grimly. “It’s not as though my fucking ex hasn’t done this before. But she’s never taken Jordi out of the country before, and the people she hangs with aren’t exactly high-minded, churchgoers. So I’m in a real fucking rush. Can you help me or not?”

  His gray eyes were drilling into hers. Despite his cavalier outlook on her business, she did have a business that required her presence. Like all the time. But now she was also upset over Jordi’s situation. She realized being a scion of the rich and famous had some serious pitfalls. And despite Jordi’s acceptance of her mother’s habits, she was
probably a frightened little girl right now.

  “I’ll send my accountants to run your office. I must have ten of them. How’s that?”

  The man knew how to negotiate.

  “And with satellite phones, you’re never out of touch. You can leave a number with your office. Or two or three. There’s a drawerful of phones on the plane. Look,” he said, his distress showing for the first time, “Jordi might be in danger. I could really use your help.”

  “When would you leave?”

  His smile lit up the cool, dim foyer. “Right now. And thanks.”

  “Don’t say thanks yet. I’m still not sure, and right NOW sure as hell doesn’t sound good.”

  “How about after we pick up your passport?” he said with a faint smile, feeling as though something might be finally going right in his day from hell.

  “I’d have to pack if I went.”

  “I’ll buy you whatever you need.”

  “I’d have to call my office at least.”

  “You could call them from the car and settle whatever you have to settle or call them later from the plane. You’d have twelve hours of flight time to talk. Is your passport at home or at the office?”

  “Jeez, I don’t know you very well,” she blurted out, voicing her most serious reservation. She’d actually be flying out of the country with a relative stranger—the stories in the Enquirer and a few lunches notwithstanding.

  “What do you need to know? Tell her I’m trustworthy, Maria. Tell her I used to be a Boy Scout.”

  Christ, she’d forgotten the housekeeper was even there. Maria’s soft sobs melted into the background of her own incredulity and doubts.

  “Mr. Johnny’s the best, Miss Nicky. Good and kind, the best father—” Maria broke down into racking sobs, her words undistinguishable wails.

  The fact that Jordi liked Nicky was a distinct plus in this fucked-up situation, Johnny decided. Although he wasn’t particularly keen that Jordi had formed a friendship with a woman he barely knew. But Jordi came before everything. That he did know. “Would you come with me for Jordi’s sake if nothing else? She could very well be scared to death.” He grimaced. “Her mother hasn’t taken her out of the country before, so she could be worried as hell. And what with you two laughing a lot—and, you know… getting along so well, you’d be another friendly face, if you know what I mean. Like you’d bring a bit of normalcy to all this bizarre crap.” At the thought of Nicky and Jordi laughing together he had an uncomfortable moment: Jordi liked people so easily; somehow he’d lost that ability. “Look,” he said, his voice husky and low, “I’d be damned grateful if you’d come.”

  “If I went,” Nicky said, slowly, knowing she didn’t actually have a choice unless she wanted to look like the most uncaring bitch, “I couldn’t be gone long.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled softly. “I’ll see that you’re not. My word on it. Hey, Maria,” Johnny exclaimed, moving toward his housekeeper, feeling decidedly more upbeat. “I’ve got a helper. We’ll be back with Jordi in no time.” Guiding the housekeeper to a chair, he eased her down and patted her shoulder. “Have your mother come stay with you until we get back. Joseph will pick her up. I’ll let him know. Stay here now, and he’ll come for you.” With a last pat on her shoulder, he nodded to Nicky and strode toward the door.

  “If we had more time, I’d wait until Maria’s mom got here, but”—he shrugged as they moved outside and he picked up the suitcase—“time I don’t have. My car’s over there,” he said, stabbing his finger at a black Lamborghini and pulling his cell phone from his jean’s pocket. “I just have to call my driver, and we’re out of here.”

  Six

  Johnny was dialing his cell phone again as Nicky left his car and walked up the path to her front door.

  After ransacking her desk and the junk drawers in the kitchen, she eventually found her passport where she’d left it after her Tokyo trip—in the bottom of her carry-on that was still laying on a chair by the door. There wasn’t even time to feel guilty that she hadn’t moved the bag in a month. Grabbing the green leather tote, she ran upstairs to her bedroom.

  She jerked open several drawers on her semanier, tossed a couple changes of underwear into her bag, moved to her dresser, and emptied the cosmetics tray—sum total, four items—into the tote on top of her underwear. Sending up a brief prayer that her perfume bottle didn’t leak, since it cost more than a person from Minnesota would normally pay for frivolity, she pulled two T-shirts from her closet, added a pair of slacks to complete her minimum packing, and was back downstairs in record time.

  Grabbing a chartreuse suede jacket from a hook by the door, she spun around in the foyer of her restored California craftsman cottage, as though one last look would afford her sane counsel, or lacking that, some sign that she was doing the right thing.

  The stuffed moose head she’d inherited from her grandpa stared back at her with its usual transcendental expression.

  Shit. She needed advice, not a blank stare.

  A trumpeting car horn brusquely intruded into her moment of doubt.

  Okaaay. If not a sign, it sure as hell indicated urgency.

  Probably a kidnapped daughter trumped doubt anytime.

  Pulling open the front door, she walked out.

  As she moved toward the sleek, black car idling at the curb, she wondered, was this really happening? Was she about to fly to Paris? Was this all insane?

  Like seriously?

  Just then the car door swung open, and there was Johnny Patrick leaning over and smiling up at her.

  What the hell.

  How many women had the chance to be up close and personal with the gorgeous, fabulous, more-beautiful-than-Brad-Pitt Johnny Patrick?

  “Sorry for rushing you, but I’m uptight as hell.” He put his hand out for her bag.

  “I was just having a moment of indecision,” she admitted, handing over her tote.

  “Call your parents, your friends, whomever. Let them know where you’re going.” He tossed her bag next to his in the small storage area behind the seat. “Give them my phone number. It works everywhere.” He held her gaze as she dropped into the seat beside him and pulled the door shut. “How’s that?”

  “What’s the number?”

  “Here’s a pen.” Reaching above his visor as he hit the accelerator, he cranked a tight U-turn in the narrow street. Steering with his knees as he ran through the gears like a race car driver and held out an expensive Mont Blanc with his other hand, he eased them at rocket speed past a delivery truck like a champion multi-tasker. Shooting through the stop sign at the corner, he downshifted, grabbing the wheel a split-second later as the gears caught, and he wheeled a right onto the main thoroughfare.

  Paralyzed by fear, Nicky braced herself against possible lethal impact. But moments later as Johnny smoothly wove through traffic, she decided perhaps she wasn’t about to die that precise second, and her ability to speak returned. “I don’t need the pen,” she said—something she should have mentioned a block and a half ago, so he could have had two hands on the wheel instead of one or none. “My memory’s good.”

  He shot her a skeptical look.

  “Keep your eyes on the road. I’m not sure my insurance is paid up. I’m even less sure if I ever changed my beneficiary after Theo took off for Thailand and more or less left me at the altar with ten payments left on my engagement ring. No way do I want him to live in comfort on my dime. So what’s the number?”

  It took him a moment to digest her blunt assessment of her former fiancé. And another to decide the guy didn’t know when he had a good thing going. Not that any of it was relevant to his life, he quickly resolved, and recited his cell phone number— slowly… just in case.

  “Jeez! Eyes on the road please!” she shrieked. He’d practically taken the paint off a Hyundai as he threaded his way through a very small opening between cars. She wasn’t ready to cash in her chips yet.

  “Don’t worry.
I raced Le Mans once.”

  At which point she shut her eyes. He’d switched lanes again, easing the Lamborghini between two cars with barely an inch to spare. A second later, he punched the accelerator, veered right across two lanes of fast-moving vehicles, hurtled up an exit ramp, catapulted out onto the freeway, and apparently indifferent to California traffic laws, put the speedometer into the red zone.

  Johnny was more or less driving on automatic, his mind a tumult of emotion. The thought of his daughter in the hands of that lowlife crowd his ex hung with had him completely unnerved. Jordi might be scared as hell—wondering what was going on. She always called him if they went out of town. But she hadn’t this time, and the fact that she hadn’t disturbed him. If one of his friends hadn’t seen her with Lisa at the Oakland airport, he wouldn’t have even known she’d left San Francisco.

  Silently running through every expletive known to man, he raged at his ex’s selfish indifference to everyone but herself. She might not even remember Jordi was along once she was strung out. Not to mention the fact that those men his ex had been partying with of late were definitely operating outside the law. He’d had them checked out, and they were third-generation, big-time drug dealing families, Ivy League degrees, custom tailors, and all the right addresses notwithstanding. None of them were the kind of men he wanted around his daughter.

  He felt like strangling Lisa.

  Sure, she had a drug problem.

  Sure, she needed help.

  Again.

  Three sojourns at Malibu House and the weekly therapy sessions he paid for apparently weren’t doing the job. But, dammit, he didn’t care how messed up she was. She had no friggin’ right to involve their daughter in her druggie life.

  This was the BLOODY… LAST… TIME.

  No more Mister Nice Guy, no more goddamn shoulder to cry on.

  The minute he had Jordi back, he was suing for sole custody.