Weird Girl (30 page)

38

Cleo woke feeling slightly hung-over. She sat up slowly and
frowned at the sunlight coming through her window. It looked like she had slept
later than usual. Much, much later. She reached for the clock on the nightstand
to check the time, and as she did so, noticed that she was wearing Jackson’s black suit jacket. And nothing else. Cautiously lifting the blanket, she peeked
underneath. Yep, naked.

Her eyes darted around the room as she tried to remember why
she was dressed this way. Okay, there was dinner. She was wearing the blue
dress. Then, there was Marco, and blood, and her running off with a necklace.
And then…nothing. No idea where the necklace was. No clue where her clothes
were. Nothing but the realization that there were certain questions that, quite
possibly, only Jackson could answer. And she wasn’t yet sure what she wanted
those answers to be.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, cradling her head in her hands while
she tried to jump start the gears in her brain. Unfortunately, the scent of
peppermint and cologne drifting up her nostrils from Jackson’s coat was highly
distracting. Frustrated, she yanked it off and threw it across the room before
standing up to pace. Which is the exact moment that Diego walked in with a tray
of juice and aspirin. He squeaked and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh, for the love of Pete!” Cleo groaned. Sighing, she
walked up to him and grumbled “I should be charging you money for this,” as she
picked up three pills and the glass of orange juice.

“I’m sorry—who is Pete?” asked Diego with a trembling voice.
“My name is Larry—I mean, Diego.”

“I don’t have time for this, Larry,” she said as she put a
hand on his shoulder and gently turned him around, popping him on the butt and
sending him scurrying out the door. Then she went to take a shower and get
dressed.

***

When she got to the bottom of the stairs, Diego was waiting,
his eyes never rising above her ankles. “Mr. Marco would like to see you on the
terrace, miss,” he said.

“I’ll bet he would,” she replied as she breezed past him and
through the French doors.

Jackson was with him, which almost caused her to lose her
nerve and run back to her room. She wasn’t ready to ask those questions yet.

The two men looked up at her as she approached, one looking
very tense, and the other relaxed with casual confidence (and a distinctly
wicked grin). “Please sit,” said Marco, pointing to an empty chair and sounding
angry. She sat and smoothly crossed her legs, leaning back in her chair and
smiling at him.

“So, will it be check or cash, old man?” she said. “It
appears that you owe me a hundred grand.”

“Where is the necklace?” he snapped, spit flying through the
air. His eyes were wild above the angry purple lump that, until yesterday, had
been a perfectly good nose.

“In a safe place,” she said silkily, although she actually
had no clue where it was. Jackson smirked, and she tried to ignore him. “How
about my knife, and my money?”

Marco slid the switchblade across the table at her, grabbing
her wrist when she reached for it. He pulled her toward him and hissed, “Give
me the necklace. Now!”

“But, Marco, that’s cheating. You know the winner keeps
all,” she pouted.

He let out a frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair.
“You don’t understand what you have taken from me,” he said. “But you are
right, we had a deal. So, I am prepared to buy the necklace back from you. Name
your price.”

“What if I don’t want to sell it?” she inquired, looking
down at her fingernails as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Name your price,” he said softly.

“Who is she?” Cleo asked suddenly.

Marco was startled. “What?”

“That’s my price. Tell me about her. And it had better be a
good story. If I’m satisfied, then I would happily return your necklace,” she
said.

He looked at Jackson, whose expression was unreadable. Then,
he stood up from the table and walked into the house, turning and waving for
them to follow. Cleo avoided Jackson’s eyes and walked just quickly enough that
he couldn’t put a hand on her back.

They followed Marco into the library, where he opened the
secret panel and preceded them into the room beyond. He removed Marilyn from
the wall, revealing a small safe. Once it was open, he pulled out a framed
photograph of a woman and handed it to Cleo.

“Do you know who she is?” he asked.

Yes, she did. It was in her brain somewhere. Cleo spent
several seconds running through images in her brain, and finally it clicked.
“Lisa the Lips?” she asked incredulously.

“Her name is Lisa Montalban, and she is my wife,” he said
quietly.

He had met her while she was undercover with the drug
runners. In fact, the first time he saw her was at a party thrown by the
ambassador/drug lord that Cleo had met at the beginning of her stay. They fell
in love, vowed never to ask questions about one another’s business, were
blissfully happy, blah blah blah…and then someone in her organization began to
suspect that she was selling their secrets. One night, when Marco was away on
business of his own (involving a small, but well-curated museum in Warsaw), they sent someone to kill her. She managed to get away, but knew that she had to
keep running if she wanted to stay alive. All she left was a note for Marco,
telling him that she loved him enough to cut him out of her life, so that they
could both survive.

It had taken him years to get a lead on where she had gone.
And that place, as it turns out, was Harper Valley, where she taught
improvisational dance to spoiled teenagers. He desperately wanted to get her
out, and bring her home, but he wasn’t entirely sure how many people were
looking for her. He couldn’t go to her, or the cartel—and Virginia Adams—would
get angry in a way that could be disastrous for both of them.

“I have worn our rings in hope of the day that I can return
them to our fingers. Please, Cleo, I must have that necklace back,” he begged.

She was reeling. Lisa the Lips was married to Marco? Weird.

Marco subtly cleared his throat, bringing her out of her
reverie. He held out his hand, waiting for the necklace. She gave a wry smile. “Oh,
yeah, sorry about that. I have no idea where I put it last night. Larry sure
does make a mean Long Island iced tea.”

For a split second, she wondered if he was going to kill
her. His features darkened and he lunged for her, only to be blocked by Jackson. “Marco, stop,” he commanded. “I have the necklace. I’ve been looking after it for
Cleo since late last night.” He glanced over his shoulder at Cleo and grinned,
making her wonder once more about the specific circumstances of how that came
to be. Jackson handed over the jewelry and then turned back to Cleo. “I’m
interested to find out how Cleo knows Lisa’s nickname,” he said, raising a
questioning eyebrow.

Cleo rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry—have we met? You know I
read those files.”

He looked confused. “There’s no way you had time to read
that many files before you brought me the one I needed. You said it took you
hours to even find it.”

“Please. After you left, I went back down there. I spent an
entire weekend in the basement reading files and looking at photographs,” she
said, tossing her head.

Both of the men grew very still. After glancing at Marco, Jackson said, “Cleo, you wouldn’t happen to remember any details from Lisa’s file would
you? Anything about the people who tried to kill her? Any names? If we had
names, we could figure out who we need to keep her safe from.”

“Not really,” said Cleo, squinting as she tried to remember.
“I just remember the drug informant thing, and the improvisational dance
thing.”

“Damn it,” muttered Jackson. Marco looked down at the floor
and sighed.

“But, if you need the file, I can get you that,” she said.

“Cleo, you’re not going to break in to Harper Valley
again,” said Jackson. “You have no idea how Adams has beefed up security, or
even if the files are still in that basement.”

Again, Cleo rolled her eyes. She walked up to him and put
her hands on each of his shoulders, looking him in the eyes to make sure he was
paying attention. “Jackson,” she said, her voice very serious. “Sometimes I
worry about you.” Then, she eased around him and opened the hidden door. “Hey,
Marco—you got Internet in this shack?”

The men looked at one another, still looking very confused.
Cleo sighed dramatically. “I made copies of the files, guys. Some are in my
apartment, but the rest are sitting out there in cyberspace, in a folder in my
email. So, are you going to take me to that computer, or what?” And then she
walked out the door.

Jackson lunged and hooked a finger through one of her belt
loops, halting her progress. He tugged on it until she turned around. “Cleo,
are you being serious right now?” he asked, unable to hide the excitement in
his voice. “You’re saying there’s a real chance that you have Lisa’s file?”

“Jackson, I have
all
of the files, at least all of
them that she had down there eight years ago. Everybody’s dirty little secrets
are sitting in digital storage. Well, except for yours. I didn’t think to scan
yours before I handed it over.” She frowned, looking very upset by that
realization.

Jackson jerked her into a bear hug, nearly squeezing all of
the air from her lungs. “Cleopatra, you’re a genius.”

“My name’s not fucking Cleopatra,” she said out of habit.
Then she froze, as a flash of memory flickered in her brain.
Hello,
Cleopatra
, he had said. She had tried to think of her usual response, but
couldn’t quite get there. She was in the pool, and he had started taking off
his jacket….

Shoving as hard as she could, Cleo slipped out of his arms
and darted out of the room.
Holy crap. What had happened last night?

She quickly walked down the hall and veered through the
dining room to the other side of the main floor, where she spotted one of
Marco’s maids climbing the stairs with a familiar navy blue dress on a hanger.

“You! Wait! Stop!” Cleo called out as she hurried after the
woman. They met at the second floor landing. Slightly out of breath from her
mad dash, Cleo said, “Where did you find that dress?”

“I cleaned and steamed it for you,” the woman said, turning
toward Cleo’s room.

Cleo grabbed her elbow. “But where did you find it?” she
asked again.

“Mr. Jackson brought it downstairs this morning,” said the
maid, opening Cleo’s door and walking quickly to hang the dress in the closet.

“I thought you might want it cleaned before we leave,” he
said from behind her. Without looking at him, Cleo dashed into the room and
slammed the door. Much of the effect was lost when the maid opened it a few
seconds later to let herself out. Jackson walked in and quietly closed it
behind him. The room appeared to be empty.

He slowly ambled to the bathroom, peeking in to verify that
it was empty. Glancing out onto the balcony narrowed his options by one more.
Smiling, he walked to the closet and slid one door open. “Go away!” snapped
Cleo.

“Is something wrong?” he asked with a hint of a grin. “You
ran out like your ass was on fire.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and refused to answer.

“What’s bothering you, Cleo? You know you can tell me
anything,” he said, reaching for a strand of her hair and sliding it through
his fingers.

Okay. This was irritating. She might as well just get it
over with, so that she never had to think about it again. Looking up at him
with visible trepidation, she said, “What happened last night?”

Jackson smiled wider. “How much do you even remember?” he
asked, stepping into the closet with her. She instinctively backed away, but
the closet wasn’t very deep, so she just ended up with her back against the
rear wall, the navy dress hanging beside her cheek. Something about this was
triggering a bit of déjà vu, but she couldn’t quite place it.

He raised one arm and grabbed the metal rod, ducking his
head below the shelf to look at her, trying not to laugh at the
deer-in-headlights expression on her face.

“You punched Marco,” she said finally.

“Yes, I did,” he replied. “And?”

“I think I might have gone swimming,” she mumbled, looking
down.

He reached out and tipped up her chin, forcing her to look
at him. “And?” he repeated.

“And I don’t know!” she said, exasperated beyond belief.

Still gripping the closet bar, Jackson inched closer, until
she could smell the peppermint on his breath. “Are you sure? You really don’t
remember?” His voice was low, and she could feel his chest move each time he
exhaled….

Cleo gasped. “You kissed me! In the pool! I was floating,
and then you were there, and you came into the water and held me up against the
side, and….” She tried to remember what came next, but her brain wasn’t feeling
cooperative. Closing her eyes, and pinching the bridge of her nose, she said,
“Oh, God. Just tell me what happened.”