Kiss Kill Vanish (12 page)

The smell of chocolate is suddenly too much. My stomach aches. A thousand terrible things could happen in seven days.

Emilio helps me hide the evidence: straighten the chairs, turn out the lights, relock the door from the outside with another tiny tool. And his time he holds me up as we walk over the fresh snow, back to my apartment, so I don't slip or put weight on my blisters. We memorize new cell phone numbers to reach each other at, but don't put them in our phones or even write them down.

“Don't ever call my other phone,” he makes me promise. “Victor doesn't know I have this one. Emergency only.”

“Emergency only.”

I trust him.

Except I notice that he glances over his shoulder and into the alleys. I notice that his hand flies to his hip when a sound explodes from behind us, then drops when he sees it's just a dog barking. I notice that before he can kiss me good-bye he has to pull me under the steps where the shadow is thicker than mud.

But trust doesn't have to mean
not
noticing, does it? It could mean noticing and ignoring. I think.

I decide for certain while he's kissing me: of course I trust him. The pressure and rhythm of his lips beg me to. It's not angry like before, but it can't be gentle or easy, either. Urgency overrides both of those things.

“I have to go,” he whispers, hot breath on my frozen cheek. “But first I need something.”

I wait. Whatever he wants.

“Run up and get my mandolin.”

Except that. I pretend to think about it, listening for the impossible sound of snowflakes landing on snowflakes. All I hear is wind. “I don't think so.”

“What?”

“You can have it back when I see you again.”

He shakes his head. “Good to know you haven't lost your nerve,
Jane
.”

“Don't call me that.”

I let him kiss my forehead, while I close my eyes and fight the urge to clutch his jacket and not let go. He slips away before I can say
I love you
. He didn't say it either.

I'm alone in the shadow.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

S
even minutes.

I told Emilio I was sure. That was a lie, and now I'm paying for it with paralyzing indecision. I'm not sure of anything anymore—definitely not sure I can convince Marcel to keep my secrets. The earth is shifting beneath me. Shale. Quicksand. Sludge. Ice. I have to take my single step, but I'm sliding before I even plant my foot. I have to do it, though. I'm going to do it. I am.

I'll leave in seven minutes, at noon, before Marcel wakes up and recalls whatever fragments of last night aren't permanently lost to another booze-narcotic haze in his booze-narcotic haze of a life, and hopefully before he sees Lucien at all. The trick will be getting Marcel alone. I don't have his number, or even a place where I can find him without finding Lucien too. I have to just show up at the apartment and send Lucien out on some errand, to go get croissants or something. That should be all the time I need.

Picturing Lucien running out to a bakery just because I ask him to is mind-blowing enough. I've never ordered him to do anything for me before—he's the one who gives out the orders. I don't even know if he'll obey.

I suppose I could flirt with him if I have to. In theory.

Six minutes.

Marcel probably won't be up yet, but it's late enough that I should be able to force his eyes open. That might actually be fun.

I go over what I'm going to say, but that doesn't settle me down. I'm screwed. Marcel doesn't care about anyone—why would he agree to keep my secret? And yet, I can't think of a single way to spin it so it's in his best interest and not simply a favor to me. With any luck, he'll have partied too hard to remember anything about last night.

And there's something else I have to do today. It came to me last night during the hours I spent lying on the cot not sleeping. I need to ask Lucien for an advance. Six or seven sittings' worth—just one painting. I'll tell him I'm moving to a nicer apartment and need it for rent, and after last night and that painfully awkward kiss, he might say yes.

Of course, I won't be around to actually sit for the painting, but it's not like it's his money anyway. It's not even his father's. It's my father's.

Lucien must wonder who I am to Victor Cruz, but he doesn't know. I'm sure of it. If he'd guessed I'm Victor's daughter, he'd treat me like a grenade. Soft hands. No sudden movements. He'd never talk down to me about art, and he wouldn't paint me over and over with such earnestness and be so blind to the pitiful results. He wouldn't have kissed me.

Five minutes.

Emilio's plane has already landed in Miami. I wonder if he's going to his apartment or straight to my house. No, not my house. My father's house. I close my eyes and picture Emilio there. I see massive bay windows, red-on-white decor, walnut floors, wall-to-wall art. I can picture him coming out of Papi's office with that earnest expression and a freshly lit cigar wedged between his fingers. Papi pats him on the back.

What brilliant actors—Emilio playing the son Papi never had, and Papi playing the father Emilio lost. The fact that I believed their charade must make me the biggest idiot in the world. Emilio hates Papi. And Papi . . . who knows what Papi feels about anyone. Or if he even does feel.

The fear hits me hard and swift, sits high in my chest, practically in my throat: I'm scared for Emilio. If Papi's as ruthless as Emilio says he is, I should be scared.

Four minutes.

There's always the possibility that Emilio has changed his mind. With a few thousand miles between us, his pulse is undoubtedly slower, his head clearer. The taste of my lips and the pressure of my hand over his heart are gone, and he has to at least be considering telling my father the truth again.

It makes sense that Emilio would think of his family. No doubt he'd earn an impressive reward, too. Papi doesn't skimp on gifts.

Or maybe Emilio's mind didn't need time and distance to change. Maybe he knew all along that he'd be telling Papi the truth. He said and did exactly what he needed to do to make me stay right here and wait patiently to be collected like a docile little lamb. Papi could be boarding a plane for Montreal right now.

But Papi can't force me to go home with him. Or maybe he can. I'm a minor in a foreign country, and he is my father. For all the things I didn't see about Papi, I've always seen his gift for intimidation. His temper. He gets what he wants.

I should run.

Three minutes.

But if Emilio was going to tell Papi, why wouldn't he have called him immediately, or started insisting I come home with him the minute he saw me last night? Instead, he pretended he didn't know me. He didn't out me to Marcel. He didn't try to force me to go back with him. He started risking his life for me the second he saw me.

So I'm gambling on his loyalty.

Gambling is an art. I've always loved watching Papi do it, and he used to let me bet on anything and everything: blackjack, roulette, poker, football, jai alai, bowling, cockfighting (just once, in Brazil, and never ever again), chess, boules. He didn't care when I took forever to pick my winner, or if I threw his money away on a lost cause.

I used to tell my sisters I was going to be a professional when I grew up, and they'd give me that indulgent half smirk you give to a child who says she's going to work in a toy store. They didn't understand that the games Papi played were more than just chance, that skill and intuition were the real wild cards.

Papi always said my problem was not knowing when to let go of a lost cause. But once I've picked, I've picked. I don't abandon my dark horse.

Two minutes.

Without that clock, I could convince myself time had stopped existing in the middle of the night. My mind is weaving in and out of yesterday and today. I'm not sure I slept at all. As soon as I curled up in bed, all the panic-pleasure-pain bled together, and even now, showered and dressed, I feel like my undreamt dreams are making me crazy.

Champagne, oyster, shock, betrayal, chocolate, kissing. It's an ingredient list for insanity.

I replay the moment when I first saw him last night. Long strides advancing, closing space, fast, his face full of hope and fear. I'm so tired, I could be delirious—the memory might be a dream. But if I'd imagined it, I wouldn't still be able to feel his hands in my hair or his breath on my neck.

Trusting Emilio is a gamble, but I can't walk away.

And now, to beg Marcel.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“B
onjour, ma chérie.
” Lucien's doorman offers his cursory greeting with a quick glance in my direction.

“Bonjour
,” I mumble, and point to the elevator. I'd rather point and wait and nod and gesture than attempt more than a word in French. As Lucien doesn't mind telling me, my French “reeks of Spanish accent.”

He picks up his phone.
“Un moment.”

I watch the switch phone light pulse red. The light blinks and blinks until we both know Lucien is not going to pick up, but the doorman waits. He's wrinkled and tube-shaped, and at the moment, uncharacteristically nervous. He's let me up before when nobody was there to answer, but maybe there's another reason he won't let me up. Maybe he saw Marcel go up last night with friends—wasted friends, female friends, user friends. I have no idea, and I don't really care.

“It's okay,” I say, holding up the key Lucien gave me. I've only had it for two weeks and haven't had to use it yet, but he pushed it on me after he got stuck in traffic and left me sitting in the hallway for an hour. He was annoyed that I left before he finally showed up.

The doorman sighs, mutters something I can't make out, and presses his magic button. The doors make the clicking sound of the lock releasing.

“
Merci
,” I call over my shoulder. Next time, if there is a next time, I'll bring him one of my white chocolate bars.

The elevators here are nothing like the jerking death cages that service my building. They glide upward without a shudder or lurch, but I'm too busy reformulating my plan to enjoy it today. A woman up there might complicate things. If that's what it is, hopefully she'll be asleep. Hopefully she'll be dressed.

With each step down the long hall my legs become a little weaker and my purpose a little more nonsensical. I'm Alice and the hall is growing, or I'm shrinking, and I couldn't be any more lost if a grinning cat was my guide, so I focus on the details of my story, on the way I'm going to ask—not beg—Marcel to play along.

I'm here. I lock my knees and stare at the peephole. If I think anymore, I won't do it, so I don't think. I knock. I do it too hard, though, and when I pull my hand back, my knuckles are ringing.

No answer. He must still be asleep, or maybe he crashed somewhere else.

I pull out my key, slip it into the door, and turn. But the key doesn't catch—it isn't locked—and the door floats open. Lucien must not be here. He doesn't forget things like that. And considering that Marcel was slurring his speech by nine and stumbling around the gallery by ten, the open door makes sense. By the time he got back here he probably couldn't spell his name, let alone manipulate a key.

The main room is immaculate as usual. Except for a coat on the floor and a crumpled program from Les Fontaines on an end table, it looks as if the cleaning lady was just here polishing glass, setting square pillows in perfect lines, raking lines into the carpet. The blinds are pulled tight. A muted glow coats the room, the afternoon beyond seeping in through the cracks.

Marcel's bedroom door is open. Wide open. I don't even have to take a step to see in. The light is on and his bed is made up tightly, the cleaning lady's corners still razor sharp. I don't want to do it, but I feel myself taking a step toward his open door.

“Marcel?” I call, but my voice is too timid to carry. I try again, louder. “Marcel?”

Nothing.

I peer in, looking around for evidence of a woman—lipstick on a glass, a high heel, a bra, last night's perfume clinging to the air—but there's nothing. Not a hint of a romantic escapade. The room smells of the same sandalwood air freshener that's in all the rooms in the apartment, but of something else too. Something rotten. And strewn across the chair are the various pieces of a tux.

I shouldn't be here. Marcel has clearly come and gone; Lucien could show up any minute. But I'm being pulled, or not pulled but pushed by something repellent and invisible behind me. Dread has two hands on my back.

I reach down and pick up the tuxedo jacket, rub my thumb over the stitching. Not Armani. Was I wrong last night? No. This isn't the tux Marcel was wearing. I check the label. Gucci. I hold it to my nose and breathe in Lucien's cologne and the faintest breath of cigar.

Plop.

I don't turn to the sound. It's coming from the en suite bathroom, which, I sense without seeing, is open wide. For one moment, I let myself notice how satisfying the sound is, before it has meaning. It's round and crisp with its own tiny echo.

Plop.

Another drop. Except it's not the metallic
ping
of a leaky faucet where water meets metal, or the
splat
of a washcloth dripping on a marble countertop. It's water
meets water.

I shouldn't be here.