Authors: Kristen Brockmeyer
Lucky in Love (14 page)
The words he murmured against the side of my neck went unheard.
The next time I woke, I knew it wasn't going to be a good day.
Sweet Home Alabama
had become the equivalent of horror movie music by that point, and the last time I'd heard it, someone had been shot. It startled me so badly to wake to it that I rolled right out of the bed and hit the ground hard, flailing in the sheet I was still wrapped in, while Chance cursed and flung the blanket aside, groping around on the nightstand in the semi-dark room for the phone.
I fought to get untangled and catch my breath after the wind had been knocked out of me while I heard Chance muttering words I couldn
't make out. Once I'd freed myself, levering to me feet with a wince at the twinges and aches voicing themselves from various locations on my body, Chance had hung up.
He sat at the edge of the bed, naked as all get out
, and I had to concentrate hard on not swallowing my tongue when I remembered what amazing things that incredible body had done to me just a few hours before. "What's going on?" The question came out shrill and I cleared my throat.
He scrubbed at his face with both hands, obviously still trying to wake up.
"We need to get dressed," he finally said. "That was Fisher. He wants us over in his room—he's got an update on Tanya and Nate. I told him to give us ten minutes."
I blew out the breath I
'd been holding. It hadn't been Dominick. We were still okay. And then it occurred to me. Oh, for Pete's sake,
Fisher
. I would never be able to look him in the face, knowing what he'd probably heard from the other side of the wall last night. I hoped like hell he was a hard sleeper.
Chance got up and crossed the room, and I watched the play and flex of the muscles in his rear end. This was not good. I needed to
get focused, like Chance obviously was, and get down to business. He rustled around in the bags from the hotel gift shop and pulled out a pair of jeans while I wrapped the sheet around myself and tried to concentrate. Progress in that department was shattered when he pulled the blue jeans up around his hips, adjusted himself, and zipped up. Commando.
Great, now I had that thought to contend with all day.
I grabbed my own bag from the chair and headed for the bathroom. Call me crazy, but I was still too shy after what had happened between us to feel comfortable getting dressed in front of him.
I clicked the door shut behind me and rummaged around for a toothbrush. It was while I was staring myself in the face, mouth all foamed up, that I realized Chance and I had not used a condom. And
whattdya know, I wasn't on the pill. I'd lapsed my prescription months ago, since there was no reason to take them besides making myself feel depressed about my nonexistent sex life.
Shit.
I spit out the toothpaste and dropped the brush in the sink from fingers suddenly too nerveless to hold it.
Shit.
My knees went abruptly weak and I sat down on the floor, the tile blistering cold on my ass through the sheet.
Shit.
How much of a moron was I? Even at 17, we'd known enough to use a condom. And grown-up Chance's sex appeal was so potent he could probably impregnate a girl just by looking at her the right way. I pressed a hand to my belly and poked my finger around at the softness of it. Was there something sprouting in there? A baby? I was barely responsible enough to take care of a cat! None of my friends had babies. I'd never changed a diaper. I wanted to yak every time I had to change the litterbox. Baby poop and its disposal was most definitely not my area of expertise. And vintage maternity dresses really weren't a high point in fashion history. I started to get lightheaded and realized that I was panting. I felt suddenly nauseous. Maybe it was morning sickness!
"
Lucky," came Chance's voice, sounding all businesslike. "If you're going to shower, you have to get a move on. I have to get in there, too."
His voice brought me crashing down from my incipient panic attack, and I got to my feet robotically, reaching for the shower faucet. I showered in record time, scrubbing myself raw and lathering my hair into a soapy tangle in the process. Shutting off the water approximately two minutes later, I wrapped myself in a towel and wiped steam from the mirror.
My face was pale, but despite that, getting laid had apparently done me nothing but good. My cheeks were smooth and clear, eyes bright despite the lack of sleep and excess of shock. Something was shining from my face, though, and I was really afraid it was more than an afterglow. I had to tone it down or Chance would take one look at all the combination of love and fear I was currently skitzing out on and go running the other direction.
Mechanically,
I pulled on the underwear I'd bought at the gift shop. The halter dress I'd picked up there was surprisingly cute—it wasn't true vintage, of course, I dimly noted, but it had a cute vintage vibe going on with its full calf-length skirt and white background sprinkled with little red bunches of cherries and red piping. My hair went into a ponytail, I slapped some lip gloss on and slipped on the black ballet flats I'd picked up, and I was ready.
And then I stood in the bathroom for another three minutes with my hand on the doorknob, afraid to open it. It was nice in here, warm with the steam from my quick shower, and it felt safe and comfy. Out there, my life was riddled with mousetraps.
I jumped when Chance finally knocked hard on the door on the other side of where I was resting my face. It felt like he'd thumped me right on the forehead.
"
I think I'm staying in here," I called out in a wavery voice. "You go on without me."
"
Come on," he called back, his voice impatient, but still understanding. "It's been fifteen minutes already and I have to pee."
"
I'm sure Fisher has a toilet in his room."
"
Lucky," Chance said again calmly, as he turned the knob I'd forgotten to lock and pushed it open just far enough so I could see his face. "I won't let anything happen to you."
His voice was strong and sure, and something had changed from the day before. He looked… tranquil, somehow. Not quite healed, but some of the torment was gone and m
any of the worry lines had eased out of his face. His eyes were soft green again. His quiet confidence was reassuring and he leaned forward and kissed me quickly but gently through the partially-open door. Just a brush of lips against lips, but it was enough to stab me right in the heart.
His
zen must have been catching, though, and I was able to stuff all of my worries back long enough to give him a tentative smile, open the door, and step past him into the narrow entryway. He gave me that old cocky grin in answer and slapped my butt as he squeezed by me and shut the bathroom door.
Oddly, the gesture made me want to cry, but I straightened my shoulders and went to search for my purse instead.
Chance walked in to Fisher's room ahead of me, but stopped so abruptly that I walked right into him, squashing my nose against the dark blue shirt he was wearing. Rubbing it and grumbling, I poked my head around him to see what the holdup was, but he threw an arm out protectively, keeping me mostly hidden behind him.
"
Welcome to my hotel." The voice was mellow, smooth and friendly. And not Fisher's. "Please, Chance, step aside so that I can see your lovely companion better."
Stiffly, Chance shifted a few inches to the left and let me step around him, but kept his arm around
me, fingers digging into my shoulder. The first thing I saw was Fisher, head down, bound to a chair, glasses broken and dangling from one ear, one eye swollen shut and the other staring off into space, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. I stifled a moan of instant fear that I was looking at a dead man.
Beside him was man in a black pinstripe suit that was painstakingly tailored to fit his
stocky, muscular build. He was Cary Grant handsome and smiling, with his black hair parted and combed neatly to one side. Frank Sinatra-blue eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners. A pencil mustache a la William Powell curved up over sensual lips and an even white smile that rivaled Paul Newman's. If it weren't for the gun he was pointing at the FBI agent's head, I would have thought I'd stepped back in time to meet a charismatic but unknown actor from Hollywood's glitzy heyday.
Until he spoke.
"I'm afraid that you took so long, we had to find some way to amuse ourselves." He gestured toward Fisher and gave a self-deprecating little smile, shrugging insouciantly.
A
slippery chill slid through my stomach as Dominick gave me a slow, thorough perusal. Holding the hand that wasn't grasping the gun over his heart, he sighed dramatically.
"
Oh, Chance. I wish I'd have known what a doll you'd be bringing me. She's absolutely gorgeous."
Wait, what? He thought he was getting
me?
I looked quickly at Chance, but he was busy trying to kill Dominick dead with the force of his stare.
Chance's arm tensed even more and I could feel icy fury pouring off of him in waves. "That wasn't the deal, Dominick. Me and the car, and the lady here threw in the matching trailer as a goodwill gesture. All that and all you have to do is let the old man and the girl leave. Fisher there would be a good move, too, since the FBI doesn't smile on people murdering their agents."
Dominick
's chuckle was rich and deep. "Oh, this boy isn't going anywhere on his own. And you don't seem to realize who is holding all the face cards in this deck." He turned his attention back to me, his blue eyes glacial. "I believe your name is—"
"
It's Paige," I blurted. I really didn't want him to feel chummy enough with me to use my nickname.
"
A very pretty name," Dominick said. I had the impression that all that urbane politeness was just a rapidly-cracking veneer. I could practically smell the batshit crazy leaking through the fissures. "But I think I prefer 'Lucky,'" he went on and winked in a way that made my guts kink. "I know that's what your friends call you and I like to think that Chance brought you here so we could be very good friends."
He nodded shortly and two men I hadn
't seen yet stepped out of the shadows. They looked to be all muscle and roughly the size of full-grown beef cows. To top it off, with the way they were dressed, they could have been extras in a Godfather movie. I had to stifle an automatic snort when I saw that the one closest to me held an honest-to-Pete Tommy gun.
I thought I was successful, but Dominick must
've picked up on my knee-jerk amusement. His voice was still smooth, but very, very icy, when he said "Do you like the hardware? It's an antique, as I'm sure a gal like you can appreciate, but believe me, the bullets in it are still perfectly capable of shredding your beautiful face into unrecognizable gore in just a few seconds."
I tore my gaze from Dominick and looked to my right, just in time to see Chance land a vicious punch in the midsection of the other
bad guy briefly before being clubbed down with the butt of a pistol. He hit the floor hard, face down in the tasteful, earth-toned carpeting. I stared at him, ticking off the seconds, willing him to get up, but he didn't move. I let out a short, terrified shriek that was quickly muffled by a meaty hand clapping down over my mouth and nose, sealing off my air. I thrashed violently, trying to pull away, but my lungs were soon screaming and my vision began to waver.
Right before I slumped to the ground, I looked at Dominick. He was stroking his thin mustac
he reflectively, his eyes like shiny blue marbles, all glittery and dead, and he wasn't smiling anymore.
I don't know what I was expecting when I woke, but a plush, beautifully-decorated room wasn't it. I sat up quickly, throwing a hand up to steady my throbbing head before it toppled from my shoulders, and looked around. I was in the center of an immense bed with a crimson silk coverlet and high, tapering posts. The furnishings were heavy but streamlined Art Deco, probably cherry and obviously pricey originals, and a vast Persian rug with deep shades of gold, reds and blues stretched around nearly to the walls of the room on all sides. A matching vanity with a round mirror on top was all set up with a silver-backed mirror and brush and various scattered crystal bottles, and crimson velvet-tufted stool in front of it. A table and two chairs were near the far wall, set with a huge Oriental vase of blood red roses, and a large wardrobe sat in one corner. A silk screen nearby probably hid the entrance to a bathroom. There was even a tall bookshelf crammed with books and a freestanding phonograph with a gleaming golden speaker horn and a shelf of records next to it.
The
room looked completely out-of-time and kind of fuzzy around the edges. I'd either been drugged during my stint of unconsciousness or it was the ethereal effect of colorful Tiffany lamps scattered around to light the room in the absence of any windows.
