French Kiss (20 page)

“Are you being helpful? I don’t think so.”

“Sorry. But, wow, you’ve got to admit, he’s a major player. Not that it matters when your heart is broken, I know. But consider, sis, how many women even have the chance to live the kind of life you lived the last few days. That’s something to remember. And you know what they say about time healing everything. You know that’s true. Look how you had to talk to that therapist after Theo left. And now you don’t even think about him. You haven’t even mentioned his name in I don’t know how long. In a few months, the name Johnny Patrick won’t mean a thing to you, either.”

Nicky sighed. “You’re making sense. Thanks. I knew as much, but it helps when someone else points out the obvious.” And while she was talking to Belle, she almost believed that everything
would work out just fine. She almost thought she might be able to get over Johnny in a few days or at the most—a few weeks.

But the moment she hung up the phone, she burst into tears. Fucking tears! She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t even cried when Theo left, except when she’d found out he’d cleared out her checking account.

Jeez, if she was crying about this, she had to face facts. There wasn’t any simple solution to her wretchedness and her even more serious state of sexual deprivation.

It was definitely time for a punt play.

Walking into her kitchen, she selected one of the larger chocolate bars she’d brought back from Nice, moved to the freezer, took out a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, found a spoon, and retired to her bedroom with her temporary solace.

Stripping off her work clothes, she put on comfort clothes— her
Simpsons
T-shirt she’d had since college and a pair of shorts from probably high school. Piling up the pillows on her bed, she arranged the chocolate bar and ice cream within easy reach, picked up her TV remote, and prepared to escape from her world of suffering and woe.

Now if only they’d make a new season of
Entourage
in the next five minutes, her life would be much improved.

Short of that miracle of technology occurring, she scrolled through her TiVo list and settled on reruns of the
Daily Show.

She was in the mood for fake news to go, with her fake sense of acceptance that she could live without ever having sex with Johnny Patrick again.

And laughing was supposed to be good for depression.

Everyone knew that.

W
hile the two most sex-starved people in
Berkeley were struggling to put their lives back in sync, Yuri was bundling a protesting Lisa Jordan onto his jet in L.A.

“I don’t know why I have to go with you! I gave you the ring back and told you what I did with the box for Christ’s sake! Let go of me you damned brute!” she screamed, trying to shake off his bruising grip on her arm. “Let go!”

“Once I have that box back, you can go wherever the hell you want,” Yuri muttered, pushing her down in a seat. “But until then, you’re staying with me. I don’t care how much you bitch. Buckle yourself in. We’re taking off.”

Under threat of violence, Lisa Jordan had admitted to taking the ring, but swor
e
she’d only done it as a lark and had planned to
give it back. That Yuri had come looking for the ring hadn’t necessarily surprised her, although she’d only taken one lit
tl
e ring from all that jewelry in the safe. (And truthfully, she’d been hoping he’d overlook it.) But she
was
surprised he was interested in the empty box. Not that she was about to ask him why, when he was so pissed. But it was strange.

But strange or not, right now, she was really hoping that box was still in Johnny’s little playmate’s purse where she’d dropped it.

She’d never seen Yuri so furious.

He’d actually let Raf put a gun to her head. She tried to cry her way out of it at first. When that hadn’t worked, she faked fainting. Unfortunately, when she’d opened her eyes again, the gun was still there.

At that point, she’d understood the seriousness of her predicament and had handed over th
e
ring and given them Nicky’s first name. “I can’t remember her last name,” she’d said, “but she builds tree houses. That’s all I know, I swear.”

Yuri nodded at Raf. He put his weapon away and after making a few calls to their offshore office, which had an efficient staff, they soon had Nicky’s business and home addresses.

They were offered satellite photos of both locations as well.

Google and GPS in acti
on.

Y
ou can imagine
Nicky’s surprise at being wakened at dawn by
a
rough whisper and the feel of cold metal on her forehead.
Was
this a nightmare? And then the unmistakable voice of the
movie
star who had awed
th
e world in at least ten wildly ac
cl
aimcd films,
said, “That’s her. She has your ring box.”

Nicky opened her eyes and said in as calm a voice as possible with her heart beating at warp speed. “What box?”

“One that belongs to me,” a tall, dark-haired man with Asiatic eyes said, gruffly.

“You must be mistaken. The only ring box I own has Barbie on the lid.”

“She’s funny,” Raf drawled. “And she’s got great tits, too.”

His tone of voice was really scary, although up against the gun at her head, Nicky wasn’t sure which was more terrifying. “I’m going to sit up now. Don’t shoot,” she said, preferring not
to be lying down with a strange man looking at her like that.

“Keep your dick in your pants, Raf,” the tall man muttered. “We have more important things to do. Now, where the fuck is the ring box?” he growled.

Nicky tried to display a certain calm reason, but the name
Raf
was coming up
CODE red
in her mind. Wasn’t he one of Lisa Jordan’s undesirable—as in bad guy—companions in Paris? “I wish I could help you,” she said, gently, like a hostage negotiator on TV might in order to deflect hostility. “But I don’t have whatever it is you want.”

“Unless she threw it away, she has it,” Lisa declared. “I put it in her purse.”

Nicky’s brain was racing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on—why these people had broken into her house (not technically, because she didn’t lock her doors) and what the hell they were talking about.

What ring box?

But the
I put it in her purse
phrase finally broke through all the, confusion in her mind.

Bingo.

All that fiddling Lisa did with her purse in the limo before she came up with a cigarette and lighter. And her own green tote bag had been on the floor, too. Okay, now she got the picture. These must have been the men Lisa was running from, and—just a wild guess—she’d taken something she shouldn’t have. “My purse is downstairs,” Nicky quickly offered. It was still on the chair where she’d dropped it when she’d come home, her tote bag too big to use for everyday. “I haven’t unpacked it. If there’s a box in there, feel free to take it.”

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 Y
eller.
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.