Getaway Girl

by Michele Hauf

  Sacha held a black leather briefcase and stood before the open door.

  “Arms out,” I said. “You are not getting in the car with me until I’m assured you’re not packing.”

  He spread out his arms. “Go for it.”

  I quickly patted him down from armpit to waist and down each leg wrapped in dark brown velvet that cushed under my moving palms. I stood, hands spread and sort of clutching at nothing to either side of me, as if I wanted to touch some more but knew I shouldn’t. Velvet?

  “You should check my crotch. Guys always stick the gun there,” he taunted. “I’m serious. I am a dangerous man.”

  Only dangerous to the fashion police. So I did pat down his front and arse, just to prove no man was going to intimidate me. Nice arse, by the way, but I couldn’t do any more than lightly touch the front of his trousers.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  Our eyes met for a coy yet snarky duel. “Nothing that stands out as particularly dangerous. Your case,” I said, forcing my eyes to the side.

  He set the briefcase on the car roof and opened it up. A bunch of papers sat inside.

  “What is that stuff?”

  “Business documents. Assorted ephemera. I never leave the office without it. You cool now?”

  “Fine.” I returned to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.

  Sacha’s hand jutted inside the car and brushed off the seat. The perfectly clean, brand-new seat. It wasn’t dirty, but he certainly must have thought it was.

  Sweep, sweep sweep.

  “Come on, get over it.”

  Finally, Sacha slid into the car and closed the door.

  Instantly, the atmosphere took on a new shape. It felt electric and a little heavier, and it raised the hair on my arms. My spa had been invaded, but the enemy wore sensuous cologne, velvet trousers and a come-hither smirk.

  “In the back,” I said, eyes focusing straight forward and, assuming business mode, hands curling about the wheel.

  “No.”

  He sat staring straight ahead, as well.

  No? I frowned. Now was no time to play with the driver. All kiddies must respect their betters.

  “All passengers must be seated in the back. This is a job. And you are a passenger. The car does not move until you do, Vital.”

  “Then I guess we’ll have a pleasant afternoon sitting in the car, listening to…what is that horrible noise?”

  “Only one of the greats.” Forefinger hovering over the volume control, I restrained myself from cranking up Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell.” Right now, I wanted to hear the man and to have him hear me. Behind the wheel I am a professional.

  “Move, Vital. It’s either the backseat or the boot.”

  “The trunk? You intend to stuff me in that little compartment?”

  “Not going to work, unless it’s in pieces. Don’t worry, the backseat will do.”

  “I’m not much for the back of any moving vehicle,” he stated. “I get queasy.”

  Eyebrow arched in extreme annoyance, I hid a smirk. This well-built, powerhouse of a man got queasy sitting in the back?

  “It’s the truth,” he said. “As a child, I never could make the trip to Batz—where Grandma Lyon lived—from Paris without my mother having to pull over to the side of the road to let me, well…”

  An unpleasant image jumped to mind of Sacha leaning over the ditch. I used to get sick when riding in the backseat, until Pa helped me get over it. It was all about following the moving horizon with your eyes. Not always possible in the backseat.

  Glancing surreptitiously to the right, I eyed Sacha’s fingers, tapping the dashboard. Tap, tap, tap. “Batz? I thought you were American? How long have you lived in Paris?”

  “I go back and forth. I was born in Brooklyn. My father is New York to the bone, my mother is half-French, but I’ve been crossing the sea for decades.”

  Hmm, he didn’t have a hint of French to his voice. Usually when people live abroad for a while, they take on a tinge of the local dialect. I couldn’t be sure if his entire life was a facade, a convenient story, or if I really wanted to believe the little boy toddling off to grandmother’s house.

  For now, I was all for keeping the interior clean.

  “Fine. You can sit in the front. But remember the rules. No touching.”

  “It’ll be difficult.”

  “And no talking.”

  “Would you like to handcuff me to the door, as well?”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, I shifted into drive and the Bimmer rolled silently out from under the white canopy. “If I had cuffs, trust me, I wouldn’t hesitate to use them.”

  “Kinky,” he said. I swung a look his way, just in time to catch his wink. “I like that about you, so sexually adventurous.”

  “You don’t know a thing about me, Vital. Most especially my preferences in bed.”

  “If that’s the story you want to go with…” He brushed his palm along the inside of the door, swiping at specks of nothing. “You know it’s been two months since I’ve had sex?”

  Oh hell. We were so not going there—two months? So he hadn’t had sex since…me?

  I shifted, awkwardly, and grimaced at the grinding gears. “Just don’t make me regret this, Vital.”

  “I can’t promise you that.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Rolling onto the rue St. Honoré, I tapped out the beat on the steering wheel as I eyed the surrounding buildings, sighting nothing questionable. I would not rule out snipers, placed by either Vital or the Faction. All windows were closed against the brisk late summer wind. A few pedestrians were either walking dogs or younger kids skipping or chatting.

  As we rolled to a stop at a blue-and-white stop sign, I turned up the tunes. No tunes while there was a passenger in the car? It was a rule I insisted on breaking, for I couldn’t bear the silence with Sacha’s overwhelming presence literally seeping through my pores.

  The drummer pounded a steady rhythm that I unconsciously matched. Again, that heaviness of being surrounded wanted to invade me by seeping into my mouth and nose and filling me with…Two months? That was such a long time.

  From the corner of my eye I noticed something bizarre. Sacha was playing—“What are you doing?”

  He paused, mid-chord, right hand formed in a plucking motion. “Air guitar.” Then took up the chorus again with an enthusiastic bang of his head and the classic guitar-god face scrunch. Metallica blasted “Fuel” over the radio, and this man…

  “You can’t do that!”

  Bringing his head bang to an abrupt, twisting halt, he winced at me. “Another rule? I saw you doing the air drums. Thought I’d join in.” He riffed into a silent scale that would have put the band’s lead guitarist to shame.

  For a moment, I just stared. It was like looking at a bad accident. You didn’t want to look, but you knew you’d be thinking about it for the rest of the day if you didn’t. The man took his air guitar seriously.

  I tapped a drumbeat on the wheel, then caught myself. “Stop it!”

  “No.”

  “And—” clenching my fingers so I couldn’t air drum, I fisted the air in frustration, “—stop talking to me. I am—this is a job. Professional, up, down, left, right, anyway you look at it. Please review rule number one.”

  Guitar abandoned, Sacha cocked his head my direction and shot me a wondering gaze.

  “I said—”

  “Rule one! No talking to the driver. You did demand my silence,” he blurted. “And you had it. I was playing unplugged, I’ll have you know.”

  “You—”

  “You either wish my silence, and thus we spend the afternoon cruising the city with no destination. Or you toss the silence rule, I put away the guitar and you get your answers.”

  He was acting like a little kid with a superiority complex. A little kid who smoothed his palm over the leather seat, back and forth, sensually—as if gliding it over a woman’s thigh. Sort of like he’d done to the stone
in his office. And the lapel of his suit. What was it with his touching things all the time? The man was just plain weird.

  Idling at the intersection, I tapped the steering wheel—but not to any particular beat. “Very well. You can speak, but only when spoken to.”

  He made a ridiculous motion of pulling the guitar strap over his head and setting the nonexistent instrument down on the floor.

  I so did not need this goof. “Where am I headed?”

  “West. Out of the city.”

  “Toward Batz?” Not to grandmother’s house! That was south and a long drive.

  He shrugged, not a yes or no in that move.

  “Exact location?”

  “That’ll come later,” he said, “after we’ve crossed the Ring Road and cleared the suburbs.”

  I was about to snap that that was unacceptable, but I stopped myself by twisting my palms about the wheel until I felt sure the leather would tear.

  Review the mission, Jamie. The Faction wanted me to get Vital out of town and away from any possible thugs he may have backing him up for an easy pickup. Everything was set. So why argue?

  And yet, there was a reason he had hired me. “Are you looking for this princess who is safe with her family?”

  “Later.”

  So he would dole out information to control me. And I really hadn’t any say around it. What did I care for his ultimate goal?

  “Take the second left and ease onto the freeway,” he directed.

  If he thought to order me around the entire time—

  I twisted on the seat, pulled back my right fist, and delivered a solid knuckle-crush to Sacha’s jaw. Wincing, I retracted my fist to my stomach. Damn, but that had hurt. I might have broken skin, but I wasn’t going to check until later.

  He didn’t speak, merely gaping at me as his tongue teased his lower teeth. Those changing green-blue eyes danced between anger and surprise.

  Turning to focus on the road, I shrugged and shifted into second. “Had to be done.”

  We passed through three lights before Sacha finally spoke. “Why do I feel like the victim here?”

  I scoffed. “The only time you’ve ever been a victim is today, and of the crime of fashion.”

  “What’s wrong with the couture?” He patted his brown velvet pant leg.

  “The trousers are…retro. It’s those stripes on that shirt.” Fine maroon pinstripes on a field of blue silk. “So naff.”

  And since when did I rule the fashion world?

  Hell, I was trying to keep it light. To draw out everything that was wrong with the man, to satisfy my need to have it all right. Because if I looked the better, then he would still be the worse of us two.

  A left turn drew us closer to the oncoming exit to the périphérique.

  “So stripes don’t attract the females?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Hmm, might explain the lack of sex of late.”

  “Yeah? Well, if you whip out the air guitar every time you meet a prospective woman, that could have some effect on your appeal.”

  “Right. On the other hand…this advice coming from a pitiful excuse for a Catholic school girl.”

  I wound up to punch him again. My fist met Sacha’s open palm with a smack.

  He shoved the shield weapon away and eased his legs out before him as he settled into the seat. “I’d hate to have you break your shifting hand on my face.”

  “Right.” Skimming my knuckles over my mouth, I jutted out my tongue and tasted blood. Yep, broken skin. But I was not about to show my pain. Resuming control, I looked straight ahead. “These hands are valuable instruments. Buckle up, Vital. We’re off.”

  “Yes, but we’re headed the wrong direction. I said west, through the city.”

  “I’m taking the périphérique. It’s quicker.”

  “But less scenic, and so much tourist traffic.”

  At that comment I swung a long stare at him. The man cared about the view? Or was he just as goofy as he appeared?

  “Keep your eyes on the road!”

  I turned my attention back to the street in time to avoid a turning bus. That lack of perception was so not me.

  “The best driver in Paris?” he wondered mockingly.

  “The best kidnapper in the city?” I riposted.

  “Touché. I guess we make quite the pair.”

  And without another word, I merged onto the freeway that circled Paris. Turning the tunes up and restraining myself from drumming along with Love and Rockets’ “So Alive,” I figured the freeway would offer some smooth sailing, and lack of conversation.

  Until we came upon the ten-car pileup crossing six lanes, which had slowed the traffic to a literal halt. Un embouteillage. I love the French word for traffic jam. Such a delicious mouthful—but not a treat.

  “Guess we’ve got time to chat,” Sacha offered. He unbuckled and twisted on the seat to look at me. “So, are you Catholic?”

  “I’m Scottish,” I said as sternly as possible, tapping the steering wheel. He was breaking the no-talking rule. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you’ve got the sexy-school-girl look going. What do you call that? A kilt?”

  “It’s a plaid.” I smoothed a hand over the skirt. “And you’re an arse.”

  “Touchy. Definitely going to purgatory for that one.”

  “Not Catholic. Scottish, remember?”

  “That’s not a religion.”

  “It is where I come from.”

  “So that means there’s nothing under the kilt—er, plaid?”

  “Just a kick, itching for your face.”

  “Meow.”

  He tapped his knee. Three times. And then he placed his other hand on the rim of the door and gave that three consecutive taps. The guy had a thing for threes.

  “All right then,” he said. “Want to reminisce about your birthday night?”

  Chapter 15

  “I need some air,” I said, avoiding the loaded question. There was no way I would allow the man to steer me to a conversation about sex.

  The traffic had opened onto an exit ramp, a road through Clichy that I was familiar with. It took us from metropolis, to suburb, to country in less than ten kilometers. The joys of the French countryside. A froth of pinks flooded a field to my left, and a billboard advertised Orangina Fire, recharging my hunger.

  “Drive to the nearest restaurant,” Sacha said.

  Hmph. I wasn’t about to agree with the man, the…compelling, charming—no, just a man. But who’s to argue?

  “We’ll get a bite to eat,” he added. “I heard your stomach growl when we took the off-ramp. Deal?”

  I had hoped he hadn’t heard that miserable growl, but I was defeated by my body’s lack of self-control. A restaurant would afford a safe setting and plenty of people, little opportunity for Sacha to try something.

  “So, you’d better talk, Vital. What’s the job? Where am I headed?”

  “I’ll give you all the information you need after we’ve stopped. Right there.”

  The golden arches screamed out from a frontage road to my left. A bloody McDonald’s in the middle of France. Only the Americans. I pulled in and was even thankful for the greasy smell of processed food as I stepped outside, away from the haven that had become a dangerous place to my libido.

  Lingering by the Bimmer—I had only just got her, and she was so pretty—I felt, rather than saw, Sacha’s catty smirk over the roof of the car.

  “She’s safe,” he offered.

  “Yeah? Well, I’ve had a bit of trouble with keeping cars safe of late.” I activated the alarm with a beep, tucked the key fob into my skirt pocket and strode into the restaurant ahead of Sacha.

  He ordered me a royal stacked with plastic-like cheese and dripping more oil than an early ’60s Triumph. A squeeze of one soggy fry spoiled my appetite. The orange juice appeared to be safe. It was keen, I must admit. But the processed chicken pieces Sacha snarfed down looked even better.

  “So.” I
wiped my mouth and slurped back a slug of over-sweetened but ice-cold, orange juice. “Is this job going to require extensive driving?”

  “Not if we find what I need.”

  I watched as he placed the white plastic knife and fork to each side of the white cardboard box the nuggets sat in. The napkin followed. Along with the plastic wrapper—neatly folded in half—and a wet wipe. Everything so…orderly. Just like his clothes, his personality. I wondered if the guy had a bit of the obsessive compulsive thing going on.

  Sacha took a sip of his beer and sat back with a sigh and a pat to his non-existent belly. “Okay, here it is.”

  All ears, I leaned forward expectantly.

  “The job is, you’re going to help me find the princess.”

  Why had I thought it could be anything but?

  The plastic creaked as I slammed back my spine into the unmoving molded seat. “Vital, are you that stupid? The princess is gone. Returned to her family.”

  Calmly, he drank his beer, then set it down. Precisely above the white fork, in fact, he made minute adjustments to the plastic cup to make it so. What was with OCD Boy?

  “And what leads you to believe she is safe?” he asked. “Did you witness as she was placed in the loving arms of said family?”

  “No, but I dropped them off at the train station. And the—” I couldn’t reveal my connections to the Faction. He had to know I was working with them, or at least suspect, because he’d suggested as much when he’d questioned me in his office.

  “Certainly that proves she is safe.” His tone mocked, as did his eyes; they tinted to a pale, cold blue. “That the Faction took her directly to the train, kissed her on the cheek and waved her off. Think, woman. What proof do you have?”

  I started to mouth “Kevin told me,” but kept it to myself. I had no reason to distrust Kevin. Eight! If he said he’d returned the princess, I believed him. What reason would he have to lie? The Faction was the good guys. Besides, I’d been right there when he’d put in a call to check she was safe.

  Really? Are you sure that call was about the princess?

  I wasn’t about to start doubting now. Should I?

  I didn’t like the way Sacha was prying beneath my skin with a fine razor; it was making me squirm.