Twenty-three
Malcolm lowered the party horn and plopped his pack down.
“Oh, right. Pouffant. I guess someone in the crowd shot him with a tranquilizer gun.” He zipped open his pack. “I can’t believe you didn’t know you’d won.”
Won? The words floated, hovering nearby, but I couldn’t quite catch them to speak. Relief flooded my arms and legs, and my body sagged. I wasn’t an assassin. Better yet, my mom wasn’t an assassin.
Malcolm caught my arm. “Are you okay? Honestly, winning that contest is about impossible. You beat out top pastry chefs.”
“Just luck,” I murmured.
“No such thing as luck in that contest. Congrats.” He pulled a soft blanket from his pack.
Of course he was right. I certainly hadn’t created my entry. Someone with the skills had helped me win. But why? What would I have to do at the Extravaganza finals? Not sure I wanted to know.
“The finals are in two weeks. For now, let’s celebrate.” He pulled out grapes, bread, cheese, and champagne. Hopefully it wasn’t drugged with truth serum.
I watched with a keen eye as he set up everything on the floor of my living room. If he were to question me would he wait until before or after the champagne? And if I didn’t answer what would he do? I shook off my paranoia. I was just an assignment to him. Not a target.
He patted the blanket. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite.”
I’d heard those words before. “Are you sure you want to do the whole blanket/picnic thing? It didn’t work out too well for us the last time.”
“I thought we were past that. I’m offering you a chance to redeem yourself.” A crafty look played across his face. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and smoothed the edge of the blanket.
I half-smiled at his show of nerves and joined him on the blanket—at the farthest edge.
Malcolm popped a grape in his mouth. “So, Savvy Bent, tell me about yourself.”
Obviously he was going with the not-so-subtle approach to questioning. I relaxed, a little. “What do you want to know?”
“What about your family. I know your dad. How about your mom?”
I was right. They had been talking about Mom. I could play his game. “In ninth grade, she was a state-champion in Chinese checkers. She tried to teach me the higher levels of strategy for the game, but I never had a real interest.”
I took complete pleasure in watching Malcolm’s facial expressions go from excited to frustrated at my trivial answers.
He flashed me a fake smile. “What else did she like to do? Any hobbies?”
I bit into a hunk of bread and held up my finger, so he had to wait while I chewed. After sipping on champagne, I finally answered. “She wasn’t like normal moms. She was extreme about her exercise regime.”
“Really?” He tilted his head and gave me his full attention.
“Oh, yeah. She got up before the crack of dawn to run like fifteen miles.” I tried to act as sincere as I could. “She’d sprint across the nearby cow pastures and hurdle hay bales. I swear she was psycho. I loved her but I would’ve appreciated more chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven.”
That was true, but it wasn’t because she was playing leapfrog with hay bales. It was more like business trip after business trip. Malcolm did a fairly good job of hiding his excitement at the info, but his hand trembled as he downed his glass of champagne. I poured him another.
“What else?” he asked, ripping off a chunk of bread.
I tapped my head. “Let’s see. My friends always thought she was kinda weird because she’d spend hours in the backyard, shooting at targets. I had to stop inviting them over because she’d scare them away. I don’t even want to talk about the knife throwing.”
He moved behind me and rubbed my shoulders. “Sounds tough. I know a little bit about obsessive parents.”
I bet he did, if his story was true about his year on his own to prove himself. As he rubbed my back and ran his fingers through my hair, I didn’t know how to feel. Did he like me at all?
I continued my story. “It was all good until I figured out the reason behind her obsessions.”
He stopped rubbing and slid his hands down the sides of my arms. Again, they were trembling a bit. I wondered how much he was getting paid.
“And what was that?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t want to bore you with details. Let’s talk about Jolie. I can’t believe someone knocked him out.”
Malcolm stiffened for just a second then leaned back into a casual pose, one leg crossed over the other. “Probably some jealous competitor.”
“Yeah, probably. But I think he’s bad.”
“Savvy, he’s one of the most loved figures in France. Why would you think he’s bad?”
I turned and faced him. It was my turn to pump him for information. “I’m serious. And I don’t think Peyton had anything to do with Aimee disappearing. I think Jolie did.”
Malcolm choked on a grape. He pounded his chest, tears in his eyes, until the coughing attack stopped.
“Who knows?” I continued. “He may have shot at us at the park and possibly on our date.” The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Pouffant clearly didn’t like my family or me.
After breathing deeply, Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “But that was a week before the Extravaganza. He wouldn’t even have heard of you.”
“True, but still.” On the outside, Malcolm’s rationale made sense. I mean, a week ago, I hadn’t even heard of Jolie or the prize money. But I also knew that from our very first date Malcolm had an interest in my family and Malcolm worked for Jolie. Heck, he probably kidnapped Aimee so he could take her job. Clearly, Pouffant knew about me, and they both knew something about my family that I didn’t, or they were delusional.
“You’re right. He couldn’t have known,” I said.
He gently pulled me into him. My head rested in the crook of his neck, and he twirled my hair between his fingers. I breathed deep. Control. Nice and easy. Would anything distract him from his mission? I lifted my head slightly and brushed my lips against his neck. His vein pulsed and his breathing quickened. As expected, he gently pushed me away.
“You’re killing me,” he said.
“Moi?” I asked innocently.
“What did you discover about your mom? What was the reason behind her obsessions? You can’t leave a guy hanging.”
I planted small kisses on his neck, moving up to his jaw. “Hmm. You don’t really want to talk about my parents, do you?”
He responded by lifting my chin with his finger. His gray eyes searched my face, moving from my eyes and lingering on my lips. He moved closer until our lips were inches apart. “Sure I do.”
I gave in and whispered, “After she returned from a trip, I looked through her stuff and found some secret documents. I think she was some kind of,” I paused as his eyes grew wider, “spy.”
“Did you find anything else?” He gently kissed me as if he really didn’t care about my answer.
Each brush of his lips against mine was turning my brain to mush. Tiny sparks of heat spread from the touch of his fingers on my skin. Was he feeling anything? I struggled to find the right words, because I didn’t want to burst his spy bubble, but I also didn’t want him spreading lies about my family.
I kissed the soft spot below his ear and mumbled, “Actually, I’m just joking.”
He jerked away, breaking from our light kisses. His hands dropped from my arms as if my skin were poison. “What do you mean?”
Before answering, I decided it was wise to move within grabbing range of the frying pan. I’d gotten the information I needed. He didn’t care about me, and that stung.
“My mom isn’t a spy.” I forced a giggle. “She was like every other work-consumed mom in America. The only thing she ever exterminated were the dust bunnies under our couch.”
“Good one.”
The next thirty minutes, I kept the banter a
s light as I could, considering I was miserable and wanted to tie him up and leave him somewhere butt naked. Finally, he packed up to go, stating he had to work at Les Pouffant’s. More like go back and report.
“What? Leaving so soon?” I said. “We haven’t even talked about my dad yet.”
I bit my lip right after the words left my mouth, and we locked eyes, the silent questions coursing between us, both of us wanting to know what the other one knew and willing to do anything to get it. I had info the maitre d’ wanted. And if the maitre d’ worked for Jolie, then that meant the great Jolie Pouffant wanted to know. That was when I decided it was my turn to spy. On Malcolm.
He might hold the answers.