All of Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I’ve never . . . I don’t even have my clothes off!”

  “And it was fucking sexy as hell.” His voice is a low, rough rasp.

  As we taxi, Chris says, “We can’t get home soon enough to suit me.” He leans in to kiss me, but stops as his cell phone buzzes. “Welcome back to reality.”

  “Told you that you should have turned it off.”

  He leans back and pulls his phone from his pocket, punches a button and reads, a stunned look crossing his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I demand quickly.

  “Nothing at all. Ava and Ricco both made deals with the DA. There won’t be a trial for either of them. It’s over, baby.”

  I shake my head, certain I’ve heard wrong. “Both of them?”

  “Yes. It’s over.”

  “I want to be happy, but does that mean Ava gets off easy?”

  “She took twenty years with no parole.” He glances at his watch. “Blake’s in meetings for the next couple of hours, but he sent us an email that might answer all our questions. Let me get my iPad.”

  The plane halts at our private hangar and Chris stands to grab his backpack from the overhead bin, then sits back down. As he powers up his e-mail, he tells the pilot we need a minute.

  After he reads for a few seconds, I prod, “Well?”

  “Ryan is in custody after Mark exposed his illegal activities, and it’s believed that he helped hide Rebecca’s body. It sounds like they feel a deal is in the making, so no trial for him, either.”

  “They’re making deals with everyone.”

  “Apparently it’s a calculated decision, based on the absence of a body and statistics with juries at trial in similar cases.”

  “What did Ricco get? Does the email say?”

  “Three years and probation. And that sales rep at Allure who helped him with the counterfeit operation—”

  “Mary,” I supply.

  “Yes. She got off on probation, for turning state’s evidence on Ricco.”

  “I’m not sure I’m happy about any of this.”

  “None of them get off scot-free. Focus on that.” He returns his iPad to his bag. “There’s a memorial for Rebecca on the thirtieth; one of the local churches in San Francisco set it up. We’ll have to leave a day earlier for the States, but it’s doable if you want to go.”

  “Yes. Please.”

  I glance at my own messages. “This doesn’t sound good. Katie wants to know if we know that we’re all over the news again.”

  “I didn’t know, but I assumed as much. They’ll retell the story over and over for ratings. Don’t be surprised if we get cornered here.”

  “What about the Louvre event tonight?”

  “I’ll warn them. They have good security.”

  I type a message to Katie, then pull up my next text. Frowning, I read it twice. “This is . . . unique,” I murmur.

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Mark sent me a text. He’s going to be in San Francisco for the memorial and to attend to business. He wants us to have dinner with him and Crystal.”

  “That is . . . .unique.”

  “Us with Mark and Crystal. If that’s not interesting, I don’t know what is.”

  Chris smiles. “Since the two of them are involved, and she’s as far from submissive as he is, it’s more than interesting. It’s entertainment.”

  I glance down at my screen and read another message from Mark. “Whoa. They’re more than involved—they’re getting married in September!”

  “Mark Compton, getting married? Dinner just got downright popcorn-worthy.”

  • • •

  Chris and I leave the Paris airport at noon, stopping at the bank on the way home. Thankfully there’s only an hour’s time difference between Scotland and France, because by the time we finally arrive home to Foch Avenue, we’re both so wired that neither of us even tries to rest. By six-forty-five we’re in the Porsche and headed to the Louvre, and for the third time, I try to call Chantal to confirm she’s attending tonight, but get her voice mail. “It’s this ongoing thing with Tristan,” I say after I end the call. “She’s less and less responsive to me.”

  Chris’s phone buzzes and he glances at the caller ID. “Blake. I’ll put it on speaker.”

  Ten minutes later, Blake has recapped what we already know about Ava, Ricco, and Ryan. He also confesses he’s hired Jacob to stay on full time through Walker Security to work specifically for Mark.

  “Bastard,” Chris grumbles to Blake as he pulls the 911 into a VIP parking spot in the Louvre’s underground garage. “I knew I shouldn’t have introduced you to Jacob. You hired him right out from under us.”

  “All for the good of mankind,” Blake jests.

  “Mankind, my ass,” Chris complains. “And what the hell does Mark want to meet with us about?”

  “I don’t have a fucking clue what Mark wants,” Blake replies. “Ah, sorry, Sara.”

  “I’m used to you now, Blake.”

  “I wish my wife would say that. But as for Mr. Compton, Jacob is the guy to talk to. He has some kind of understanding with the man. He gets him. I don’t.”

  We end the call and I sigh. “It’s going to be weird, not having Jacob at the building when we get back home.”

  Chris pockets the key to the 911 and opens his door to exit. As I reach for mine, he grabs my arm, stilling me. “I’ll come and get you.”

  Warmed by Chris’s gentlemanly command, I wait as he rounds the back of the car to open my door. He offers me his hand, and when I press my palm to his, the heat that simmers in his touch is something I never tire of feeling. I stand, my long black jacket draping over the pale pink knee-length sheath I picked because it’s the color of the wedding dress I almost chose. One of my hands flattens on his black Louvre T-shirt signed by himself, the other slipping to his waist beneath his sleek black leather jacket. A couple walks by us, the man in a tux, and I smile up at Chris. “My future husband—the rebel in leather and denim.”

  “They’d think I was an impostor if I wore a tux. This is who I am. They know it. You know it.”

  “Oh yes. And I like it. When I was trying on wedding dresses, I was thinking that it’d be kind of sexy to have me in a gown and you like this.”

  “I’m wearing a tux for the wedding.”

  “Don’t wear it for me, Chris. Seriously. I like you like this.”

  “The joy of putting on a tux is you taking it off of me when it’s all over. And you still need to decide where we’re going for our honeymoon.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and there’s only one place I really want to go: to the place I first thought of as home with you.”

  “You want to stay in San Francisco?”

  “Very much. We’ve been everywhere but there, it seems. I just want us, in our own space.”

  He curls my hand in his and brings it to his lips. “Home it is, then.”

  We lace our fingers together and head to the elevators. There I lean against Chris, the bond between us, which I always felt, now possessed of a name: love. I think I loved him the moment I met him; I just didn’t know what the feeling was until later.

  We exit into a long corridor and the press is everywhere, taking pictures of important people coming and going. Chris flags down a security guard, who motions us to a side door, and Chris leads me forward.

  For the briefest of moments I’m back in L.A. with Chris, at another charity event. That was the night my ex-fiancé, Michael, showed up, and all hell broke loose. I have a flashback of crying in a bathroom stall after Michael threatened me, only to have Chris storm into the ladies’ room to save me. And it hits me then that he is always quick to say that I’ve saved him. I need to make sure he knows he’s saved me, as well.

  After our coats are checked, Chris and I are ushered into a magnifice
nt room where an orchestra plays beneath towering arched ceilings, and artwork surrounds us on every wall. Around us, fancy ball gowns and tuxedos are sprinkled like glitter on a night sky, elegance alight everywhere. And much to my delight, the food is all my favorite French cuisine, which includes puff pastries, macarons, and chocolates, which I nibble on in between the many conversations that have me struggling to understand bad English, and our visitors struggling to understand good English. Chris is charming to everyone, as always, creating laughter and smiles, and I don’t miss how he touches me every chance he gets, and finds ways to engage me in every conversation despite the language barrier.

  About an hour into the event it’s time for Chris to enter a signing booth for autographs, and I’m amazed at how many people line up eagerly to meet him and get his signature. He laces his fingers with mine to pull me toward the booth, but I hesitate.

  “I should stay. They want you, not me.”

  “Baby, you are the topic of the night. Everyone wants to meet my bride-to-be.” Not taking no for an answer, he starts walking with me in tow, but I dig in my heels. Not for the reason he thinks, I’m sure.

  He stops and looks at me again, and I glance at the line of people waiting, and then him. “I just . . . I wanted to say that you’re so good with people, and so talented. Sometimes I’m still a little in awe of you.”

  He cups my face. “I’m the one in awe of you, and of how lucky I am to be marrying you.”

  “Chris,” I whisper, emotion lodging in my throat. “I’m—”

  “My future wife. Come stand by my side, where you belong.”

  I warm with his words, and we move through the crowd and into the booth. Instantly we are in the midst of activity, both of us greeting people. It’s light and fun, and even without any mastery of the French language, I find myself laughing and having a good time.

  About an hour later Chantal appears, waving at me, looking stunning in a sparkly navy blue chiffon dress. I tell Chris, “I guess Tristan finally let her out to play.”

  Chris waves over a guard to bring her to me, and any fear I have that she’ll feel awkward with me is quickly dispelled as she greets me with a hug and we fall into our familiar banter, chatting with each other and the guests.

  When finally the crowd dies down, Chris steps to a quiet corner to talk with some Louvre officials while Chantal and I raid the chocolate table.

  “I’m so glad you made it,” I say. “You were such a help, and I clearly must learn French. It looks like we’ll be here regularly.”

  “Tristan doesn’t want me to go to the wedding,” she tells me, “but I’m going. I’ll be there.”

  “I’m glad. Do . . . you want to talk about Tristan?”

  “No, not now. I can’t talk about what I don’t understand.” Her gaze lifts and she pales. “What’s Rey doing here?”

  My gaze lands on the tall, good-looking man standing by the entryway, and I do a double take. “Apparently, looking all kinds of tall, dark, and handsome,” I say, shocked to find him in a tuxedo.

  “And arrogant. As always.”

  As if sensing her remark, Rey’s gaze lands on us, lingering on Chantal, and the charge in the air is electric and a bit hostile. Time seems suspended for several seconds before he cuts through the room and disappears.

  I shake off the experience and stare at Chantal. “What the heck is going on between you two?”

  “Nothing, really. I wanted him. We kissed. But it was more than a kiss. It was . . . .something I can’t explain. And then he told me he was bad for me, and he’d never touch me again. So he hasn’t.”

  “And now you’re with Tristan.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he doesn’t like it.”

  “He says Tristan’s bad for me.”

  “And you say?”

  “That Tristan needs me. I don’t know what Rey needs, but clearly it’s not me.”

  “Chris thought he was bad for me, too. He’d been through hell, and he didn’t want to drag me into it.”

  “Tristan has no problem dragging me into his hell.”

  “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, Chantal. All I know is that if Rey doesn’t want to drag you into something he perceives as bad, he’s trying to be a good man.”

  Chris is suddenly behind me, his hand resting on my back as he leans close and says, “I need to see you alone for a minute.”

  “I’m going to leave anyway,” Chantal announces. “You’re here a couple more days, right?”

  “Yes. We leave on the twenty-ninth.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promises.

  Chris leads me toward a side door.

  “What’s going on?” I ask softly as we step into a corridor decorated with artwork.

  “I have something I want to show you.”

  His expression is blank, his mood guarded, and a frisson of unease slides through me. He stops at a heavy white door with crown molding and opens it, motioning me inside.

  I step inside to find a lounge area with a couch and two chairs. Rey is sitting in one of the chairs. “It’s Ella,” I say, my voice a choked whisper.

  Rey doesn’t deny or confirm my assumption and Chris shuts the door behind me, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Let’s sit, Sara.”

  “Is she dead?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Is Ella dead?”

  “We don’t know,” Rey replies while Chris literally sits me down in the chair, kneeling beside me.

  “He got a tip on Ella, but keep in mind this isn’t good or bad,” Chris says.

  Rey hands me his phone with a picture displayed. “Is that Ella?”

  I stare down at the photo of a woman staring up at a camera from some sort of counter, and while her hair is dark, not red, I’d know her face anywhere. “Yes. Yes, that’s her. Where is this? When is this?”

  “Six weeks ago in Italy, is all I know right now,” Rey says. “That was texted to me as I pulled into the museum tonight. The good news is that we know she left France, and Neville, alive. The bad news is that no one has seen her since that photo. The store attendant said she came in acting scared, wanted to use the phone, and left out the back door when a man came in the front door. Whoever that man was followed her out the back.”

  “And then what? She just disappeared?”

  “Yes,” Rey confirms. “But the fact that she’d changed her hair color leads me to believe she knew she was being hunted, and she’s hiding.”

  I turn to Chris. “I want to go to Italy. We have to find her. We’ll look ourselves.”

  Chris flicks Rey a look. “We need a minute.”

  “We don’t need a minute. We need to go to Italy.”

  Rey gets up and leaves.

  “We aren’t going to Italy,” Chris states.

  “What do you mean? I’ll go on my own if I have to.”

  “No. You won’t. I’ll lock you up and throw away the key before that happens.”

  “Don’t give me that threat again.”

  “There’s a reward out for Ella’s return alive, possibly put out by Neville, though the person offering it is sealed information. It’s a big enough reward that people will kill to get to her. If we’re thought to be in the way, we will be killed.”

  “She needs someone to come after her!”

  “And we’ve sent help. But getting killed means she has no one to return to, Sara. We aren’t going. You aren’t going.”

  I shove to my feet and all but climb over Chris. He’s on his feet and I’m pressed against the wall in two seconds flat, his powerful thighs pinning me in place. I shove at his chest. “Let me go. Stop acting like a bully.”

  His fingers twine my hair on either side, framing my face. “I will protect you, Sara. It’s a vow I’m taking for the rest of our lives. I won’t let you get killed. I can’t lose you, Sara. I
won’t lose you. And think about this: What good do you do her dead?”

  My heart is racing a million miles an hour, but my mind is slowing, my emotions calming. “I hate that you’re right. I really, really do.”

  Relief registers on his face. “I do, too, baby. I do, too.”

  “I’m going to think too much about this. I need out of here. I need to get lost in you and us—”

  He kisses me, a deep, hot, claiming kiss before he promises, “I know what you need. Let’s go home.” He takes my hand and starts for the door.

  I need what Chris will surely do for me when we are there, the way he’ll take me to the edge where I can’t think. Because I know that my desperation to go to Italy stems from a fear I haven’t wanted to face. I’m not sure she will ever be found. I’m not sure she will ever come home.

  Part Nine

  Defining Moments

  On Christmas Eve, Chris and I walk among the street vendors who have set up for the holiday on the Champs-Élysées, and for the first time in years for either of us, we pick out a Christmas tree and put it up. We even pick out Chris’s wedding ring, and arrange for it to be delivered to our home in San Francisco. I love how excited he is about his choice of a titanium band with an Art Deco design, and even more so about his decision to have it engraved with our names inside. Everything about the evening is romantic, and I’m happy in a way that I didn’t even know I was capable of being.

  We decorate our tree, then make love on the rug beside it, where we fall asleep. It’s dawn when Chris carries me to our bed and wraps me in his arms, both of us drifting back into slumber.

  I wake on Christmas morning to the smell of cinnamon and coffee, and Chris missing from our bed. Smiling at the certainty that he’s up to something wonderful, I toss aside the blankets and put on my robe. I brush my teeth and tame the wild brown mane on my head as much as possible, then I excitedly go into the closet and dig into my suitcase, where I’ve hidden the gift Chantal helped me secretly order for Chris. I remove the custom-made African-wood box that glistens with shiny perfection. On top, a replica of Chris’s signature is etched into the smooth wood. And inside is the very first paintbrush he ever used, which he has always kept wrapped in plastic in his office.