French Kiss

by Susan Johnson

  In fact, everyone was at this warehouse today because one of the largest drug-transit dealers in Uzbekistan had a penchant for art—particularly Picasso. The stolen sketchbook in the Bulgarian’s hands was rumored to be from Picasso’s early period and would serve as payment for a shipment of opium being relayed to Europe. The sketchbook had been targeted and stolen from a private collection—its worth estimated at five million dollars. Not that the petty thieves with the sketchbook understood its value.

  “The money is all here,” Raf said, lifting a small briefcase onto the table and opening it. “Two hundred fifty thousand euros.” Euros had become the currency of choice for drug deals since the dollar’s recent decline.

  The Bulgarian’s cohort quickly thumbed through the packets of bills, then snapped the briefcase shut and set it in his lap.

  “Here. It’s not much—mostly scribbles,” the weight lifter said, his French heavily accented and rough.

  Yuri drew the small sketchbook closer and flipped through a few pages before shutting it. “My father appreciates your fast service.” He stood and nodded at Raf, who came to his feet as well. “If our client has any other requests, we’ll call you.”

  Neither young man looked back as they left the room. They didn’t have to. Their families wielded enormous authority in the criminal world, and their guards were stationed outside the door.

  Not that Yuri and Raf were involved in any of the more unsavory aspects of their fathers’ businesses. They only served as couriers from time to time on low-level assignments.

  When dangerous missions arose, professionals were employed—ruthless men without the benefit of Ivy League educations or consanguinity to those at the top.

  It was left to Yuri and Raf, heirs to a business that had taken on global proportions and with it the requisite accountants and international bankers, to simply enjoy the hedonistic lifestyle of the über-rich.

  Fifteen

  After several glasses of wine, Johnny was ready to crash by the time they returned to the hotel. Not that he was about to admit it, but Vernie had seen enough children fighting sleep in her day to recognize the symptoms. Taking charge with the authority of three decades of putting unwilling tots to bed, she said, “You take a short nap, Mr. Johnny, and Jordi and I will see that Miss Nicky is entertained.” Jordi had wheedled and coaxed Nicky to come back to their suite and play video games.

  “Maybe I should go,” Nicky said, feeling way out of place in this family scene, cognizant of the fact that Jordi, not Johnny, had been begging her to come back to their suite with them.

  “You have to stay,” Jordi implored. “Tell her, Daddy. Tell her to play Project Gotham with me.”

  “I’ll play with you.” Johnny smiled at Nicky. “You’re off the hook.”

  See, Nicky thought, really feeling like a fifth wheel now. It hadn’t been a double invitation.

  “Not so fast,” Vernie warned, her eyes half -narrowed. “You’re taking a nap, Mr. Johnny, and that’s that.”

  “Uh-oh, Daddy—you’re in trouble now,” Jordi said, her glance flicking from her dad to her nanny. “Vernie’s giving you the evil eye.”

  “No arguments, Mr. Johnny.” Drawing herself up to her considerable height, Vernie pointed toward one of the bedrooms. “Go. We’ll manage fine without you. We three girls will have a chat over tea.”

  “Tea with scones!” Jordi cried.

  “And your favorite—clotted cream,” Vernie said, smiling as Jordi hopped up and down. “Lots of Brits stay here,” she explained to Nicky. “So the scones are excellent. You must have some with us.”

  “YES, YES, YES!” Jordi exclaimed. “You don’t have to play video games. Tell her, Dad. She doesn’t have to play.”

  Johnny met Nicky’s gaze, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “It’s up to you. I have no clout, as you can see.”

  Vernie snorted. “As if. But you can barely keep your eyes open. Now skedaddle.”

  Johnny grinned. “I’m only giving in because I can’t replace you on short notice.”

  “You can’t replace me at all,” Vernie said, bluntly.

  “Mommie says she has to put up with Vernie because she’s ir-re-place-able,” Jordi piped up.

  Vernie lifted one brow. “I rest my case.”

  Having grown up in an area of the world devoid of nannies or even the concept of nannies, Nicky hadn’t realized the degree of authority they wielded. She was thinking maybe she’d better stay for a scone or she might be put to bed without her supper.

  “Enjoy the scones,” Johnny said to Nicky, as though reading her mind. “I’ll see you all later.”

  The door to his bedroom shut a moment later, and Jordi nudged Nicky’s hand. “Can you play cribbage?”

  “Sure can.”

  “Yesss! Hey, Vernie, Nicky plays cribbage!”

  Vernie smiled. “This is our lucky day. And whenever you get tired, feel free to leave,” she added, turning to Nicky. “Mr. Johnny said you slept on the plane, or I wouldn’t have coaxed you to stay.”

  “I did sleep—rather well.”

  “Mr. Johnny has a nice plane. Now, you two girls go set up the cribbage board, and I’ll fix the tea.”

  The nanny had said “nice plane” casually, like most people would say, You have a nice lawn, or maybe a nice couch. Was she outside her normal venue or what? Ooooh yeah.

  On the other hand, private jets and five-star hotels aside, these people had the same problems as everyone else—albeit in more posh surroundings. But they fought just the same (this rushed trip to Paris a case in point) and probably cried as hard, and happiness wasn’t guaranteed them any more than it was to those who lived in Black Duck.

  Okay, so she was trying to maintain her perspective, find some balance in this rarefied world of nonstop sycophancy and personal bodyguards—not become overwhelmed by the sheer economics of all this affluence.

  “What color pegs do you want?” Jordi called out from across the room.

  “Green.” So much for seeking enlightenment; the mundane always had a habit of butting in.

  “That’s my favorite!”

  “Yellow then,” Nicky said, moving toward the table where Jordi was setting up the game.

  “Perfect, cause Vernie doesn’t like yellow,” Jordi muttered, arranging the pegs into three different piles.

  Nicky had learned to play cribbage from her grandmother, who was not only a great cribbage player but could also win against God himself at gin rummy. Nicky could hold her own in both those games, which came in handy a short time later, when she came up against Vernie, who liked to play for blood when confronted with a worthy opponent.

  It felt like old-home week for Nicky, since her grandma didn’t like to lose, either. Having honed her skills against cutthroat competition, Nicky enjoyed the game, although wouldn’t you know it, Jordi, novice that she was, won in the end.

  The young girl was all smiles, as the two women exchanged conspiratorial glances.

  “Another scone?” Vernie asked, offering the cake plate to Nicky.

  “I shouldn’t, but what the heck,” she said, reaching for one. “They're really good.”

  “A woman needs a little flesh on her bones; those models look like they’d blow away in a good wind.”

  The reference might have been about women like Lisa Jordan, Nicky reflected, although she herself wouldn’t blow away even in a typhoon. But having nary a single anorexic bone in her body, she piled on the clotted cream and strawberry jam and ate another deliciously flaky scone with great relish.

  While Nicky was tending to her scone, Vernie had taken a moment to slip in a DVD and Jordi was currently enthralled in the adventures of a sci-fi heroine dressed in skintight silver-studded leather to match her platinum hair.

  “Jordi could use a little downtime,” Vernie murmured, flicking a glance toward the young girl. “Her sleep was interrupted last night.” She rolled her eyes. “The party never stopped.”

  “Johnny was so worried, I doubt he sle
pt at all. Jordi’s mother had never taken her out of the country before, I guess.”

  “And she won’t again.” Vernie nodded at the closed bedroom door. “He’s pretty grim about this. Not that it shows now,” she added, softly, “but he was furious when he showed up at the Ritz. I could tell.”

  “It’s always hard when parents can’t agree.”

  Vernie snorted. “There’s no agreeing with a drug addict. Once they're on a roll, you might as well just get out of their way.” While Jordi watched her movie, Vernie and Nicky visited, or more aptly, Nicky answered Vernie’s questions. How had she met Johnny? Did she have a boyfriend? A smile when Nicky had said, no. Where was her family? Did she see them much? Was she close to her siblings?

  And after hearing that Vernie had little family of her own, only an elderly aunt who lived in Aberdeen, Nicky understood her curiosity. If you come from a large, extended family, solitude and personal space sometimes trump family ties. On the other hand, a person like Vernie—more or less alone in the world—might tend to value family more.

  But after having been raised by a mother and grandmother who talked your ear off, Nicky was perfectly comfortable with a chatty woman who asked personal questions.

  Jordi fell asleep before the platinum-haired heroine had killed off more than three bad guys. Although that might have been influenced by something about the lack of dialogue that dulled one’s brain sensors. Background soundtrack or not, two cups of tea or not, Nicky was having trouble keeping her own eyes open.

  Not that she’d actually had a full night’s sleep last night.

  Not that it wouldn’t be heavenly to shut her eyes for just a minute.

  Or maybe just a second…

  Vernie smiled faintly as Nicky’s eyelids closed, her head lolled back, and she gently dozed off.

  After finishing her tea, Vernie gazed at her sleeping charges with a satisfied smile, and rising from her chair, she covered Jordi with one of the numerous throws in the richly appointed room. Then moving to the couch where Nicky was half-sitting, half-lying, she gently eased her down, slipped a pillow under her head, and covered her, too. After thirty years of practice, she could shift a sleeping person without them so much as fluttering an eyelash.

  Then taking a chair that would give her a view of the two sleepers as well as the closed bedroom door, she sat down. Picking up her knitting—all the rage again—she proceeded to add several inches to the argyle sweater she was making for Jordi.

  Sixteen

  An hour later, the door to the bedroom opened.

  Meeting Johnny’s gaze, Vernie put her finger to her lips, nodded at the two sleeping figures, and motioned him toward the kitchen.

  “Everyone was tired,” she said, following him into the small kitchen and shutting the door.

  “Including you, I’ll bet,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t I take over now and watch the two sleeping beauties. You rest for a while.”

  “Since we’re going out for dinner tonight, I’m going to take you up on your offer.”

  Johnny grinned. Vernie never missed a meal, particularly one prepared by a world-class chef, although she was also known to drive ten miles for a good Coney Island hot dog. “Then, hop to it, babe. We have reservations for eight.”

  “At Le Troquet?”

  “Where else? It’s your favorite.”

  She arched one brow. “That’s why you have all the women after you. You know how to charm. Speaking of which, you should think about charming that lovely Miss Nicky. She’s actually normal—with a regular family—unlike most of your other female acquaintances. And you’re not getting any younger. You don’t want to be still dating bimbos when you’re pushing fifty.”

  “First, I won’t be pushing fifty for more than a decade. And second, I’ll consider your advice when and if I ever have the inclination to settle down again.”

  “You should think of Jordi. Maybe she’d like a woman in the house who is normal.”

  “Are you saying you’re not?”

  She pointed her finger at him. “You know very well what I mean. I’m not around all the time. Jordi might like to be part of a family again.”

  He put up his hand. “Stop already. I’m way past the white picket fence fantasy. Jordi and I manage just fine the way we are.”

  Vernie knew when she’d said enough. One didn’t survive in the world of high-powered Hollywood employers without understanding the virtue of silence. “I’ll be taking my nap, then. And you’re a real good father. It’s just that Nicky seems—I don’t know—different… in a nice way,” Vernie couldn’t resist adding with a wink.

  Johnny smiled. “It’s obvious she’s nice. But I’ve got too much going on right now to deal with any one woman.”

  “Maybe once your ex is settled or at least stable.”

  He snorted. “You’re a dreamer if you’re waiting for that. But so long as Lisa doesn’t put Jordi in danger again, I’m good. We’re outta here in a day, and after that Lisa can go to hell any way she pleases. Now, go take your nap.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He chuckled. “You must want something.”

  “Just think about taking her out.”

  “Nicky?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. And as far as ‘taking someone out,’ I haven’t done that since high school. Furthermore, how stupid would it be for me to start something with Nicky when she’s building Jordi’s tree house. She’s gonna be around for at least a month. Think how awkward that would be. Most of my relationships are measured in hours.”

  “You’re going to end up old and alone.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ve got Jordi.”

  Seventeen

  Johnny found a comfortable chair in the sitting room, put on his headphones, and listened to some new tracks he’d been working on in his studio before he so precipitously left the Bay Area. Taking notes from time to time, he fine-tuned the sound, the rhythm, the lyrics—some of the words were questionable even to his ultraliberated sensibilities.

  The sleepers slept on—both in his line of vision. So he took notice when Nicky stirred. Eyes shut, she rolled over on her back and kicked off the cashmere throw Vernie had tossed over her. Mumbling something unintelligible, she threw her arms over her head like children did in sleep, and let out a soft sigh.

  That particular pose lifted her breasts high. The plump mounds provocatively on show and the shapely woman stretched out on his sofa suddenly took center stage in his brain. His focus on music faded away, short-circuited by one helluva good view. Jeez, he’d never really noticed her great tits before—the brevity of their acquaintance and recent events no doubt to blame.

  Although, now that he had—those were world-class. Not that silicon didn’t offer every woman equal-opportunity tits, but the possibility of checking hers out suddenly crossed his mind.

  Not that Vernie would approve. Nicky was normal, she’d said— as in nice normal. As in off-limits for ultracasual sex normal.

  He pursed his lips and softly sighed. Vernie was right.

  Nicole Lesdaux from Black Duck, Minnesota, was normal as apple pie—an all-American girl.

  Not his type—at all.

  So why was he looking?

  He didn’t have an answer. And before he could rationalize a suitable one, she abruptly stretched, arching her back languidly, like a cat in the sun. As if that wasn’t a full-fledged ripe-for-sex image, a moment later, she began moving her hips in a highly suggestive rhythm—half-smiling all the while, as though enjoying a pleasurable dream.

  No way was that frigging apple pie, the drift of her hips erotic as hell, as were those spectacular upthrust breasts, their lush fullness barely covered by the tight T-shirt stretched over them. Not to mention, the imprint of her nipples was searing his eyeballs. She must be having one helluva good dream with nipples that hard.

  Shifting in his chair to accommodate his rising erection, unconsciously reverting to type, he swiftly sized her up from head to foot, his gaze finall
y coming to rest on target. The tantalizing juncture of her thighs offered a riveting view of her mons in that horizontal pose. Gap chinos never looked so good.

  Forcibly wrenching his gaze away a second later, he reminded himself not to deliberately look for trouble. Sex with Nicky Lesdaux would compromise Jordi’s tree house—sure as hell.

  Especially transient sex.

  So seriously, she was off-limits—as in no way, no how.

  Grappling with his rare need for restraint—sexual temperance an oxymoron in his world—he blew out a breath. A vehement, deeply frustrated one.

  Nicky’s lashes lifted at the sound, her eyes flaring wide at the sight of Johnny staring at her. Still half-asleep, she scanned the room, trying to come to grips with her unfamiliar surroundings, struggling to make sense of what she saw. Paris—that was it— Johnny Patrick’s hotel suite, Vernie and Jordi; she must have fallen asleep. Oh, Christ, how gauche was that? She opened her mouth to apologize.

  Johnny silenced her with an upraised hand, then pointed at his sleeping daughter.

  Having cleared away the traffic jam in her mind, all she wanted to do was escape as fast as she could. Falling asleep in Johnny’s suite was so juvenile or worse—like maybe some groupie attempt to hit on him? Quickly rising from the couch, she waved and moved toward the door, hoping he didn’t think she’d intruded purposely. Women were always trying to inveigle their way into Johnny’s life she suspected. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was hustling him.

  Au contraire.

  Johnny was too busy dealing with his own indecision.

  Should he or shouldn’t he give chase? he was wondering.

  Where exactly did prudence rank in the grand scheme of things?