“Yeah, it’s inspiring.” Brooke yawned again and wiped her eyes. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I was afraid I might talk in my sleep.”
Lacey felt her mouth drop open. “What on earth do you think you’ll spill? Who really killed JFK? Vince Foster’s assassins? Names of the dead aliens in Area 51?”
“You laugh.” Brooke sniffed. “What if I said something about the Romanov corset?”
“I can’t believe you lay awake worrying about these things,” Lacey said. “You did the sweep in our new rooms. No bugs. Who would hear you mumbling about the corset?”
Brooke stifled another yawn. “And mostly I couldn’t sleep because, well, I miss Damon.”
“Oh. Of course you do.” Lacey felt a sudden pang of guilt. Not only was she half of a couple in full breakup mode, she was keeping other couples apart. She was a carrier of the breakup bug. And in her clownish tourist disguise, Brooke wasn’t even getting to enjoy the famous French flirtation. “Maybe it was the ghost who kept you awake,” she said, hoping to cheer her friend up, and herself too. “What do you think, should we try to contact the spirit of Marie?”
Brooke’s spirits rose at once. “Maybe she saw who searched our rooms! Maybe we could communicate with her!”
Lacey thought about the lights that flickered off and on at the Hotel Mouton Vert. “We’ll invite our ghost-loving concierge, Monsieur Henri. You do believe in ghosts, don’t you, Brooke?”
“Of course I believe in ghosts. I came to church with you, didn’t I? And I believe in you, Lacey. I don’t want to spoil this day for you,” Brooke said. “I know you’ll think of something brilliant. Something about the corset. Something we’ve missed.” She yawned deeply.
Lacey suddenly felt empty and defeated. She stood up and shouldered her bag, and she gave her sleepy friend a hand up. “What we’ve missed is that we really are clueless. And if you think I can solve every mystery that comes my way, you have been reading too much DeadFed dot com.”
Brooke smiled at the very mention of her boyfriend’s Web site. “You’re right. We’re both clueless. Maybe I’ll be smarter after I get some sleep. Call us a cab, mademoiselle.”
Lacey’s wig was beginning to make her scalp itch, and her tiny glasses were hurting her nose. She couldn’t wait to shuck off her tourist disguise, and a plan was forming in her mind for a solitary stroll through the streets of Paris in search of inspiration while Brooke napped. She smiled. At least it’s a plan. She lit two more candles, one for each of them, before heading back to the hotel. Lacey looked up toward Heaven, somewhere in the direction of the stained-glass windows high above them in the immensity of the Cathedral. She said one more fervent prayer.
I feel like a complete fool here. You got any bright ideas?
Chapter 20
They caught a cab and were back at the hotel by one. Brooke went straight to dreamland in her room, after another scan for bugs. And after promising she would wake her up if she had any random brilliant thoughts, Lacey exited to her own room across the hall. It seemed very peaceful. There was no hint of a woodsy rose perfume, no bugs, and no ghosts.
She stripped off her depressing tourist costume, feeling happy to be free of the dowdy garb, and quickly changed into black slacks and a fitted black-and-red sweater that showed off her curves. She freshened up what her Aunt Mimi would call her “war paint,” making her eyes smoky and sexy and her lips a deep red. Her highlighted hair, freed from Brooke’s itchy wig, flowed down to her shoulders. Lacey saluted herself in the mirror, promising herself a wonderful solo outing on the streets of Paris. She felt much more like herself again. Brooke was a dear, but her obsessions and paranoia were cramping Lacey’s style. Believing that at least half of looking good is attitude, Lacey felt she could now go toe-to-toe with any French femme fatale.
Grabbing her red leather jacket, her purse, and her map, she checked with the concierge for directions and headed for the Métro. Her first target: the Eiffel Tower. Lacey knew if Brooke was making up for a sleepless night she would have at least a couple of hours on her own. And if any Frenchmen wanted to flirt with her, bring ’em on, chérie. Mais oui!
One nagging thought intruded on Lacey’s good mood. She would have to give up on Magda’s dream of a lost Romanov corset, if it was a corset, as truly lost. Once something is really gone, she told herself, accepting its loss should bring a measure of peace. She had done her best to make Magda’s last wish come true. She had traveled all the way to France, she had followed up on Magda’s only lead, and she had even found a brand-new clue, or half a clue. It had led her nowhere. But she had tried.
By the time the Métro train rushed to a stop, Lacey had mentally absolved herself of blame. She was free! If life were a musical, she mused, this would be a moment to break into song. A tap-dancing-up-the-stairs number, à la An American in Paris. Alas, she had never taken those dance lessons, but she was dancing in her heart.
Feeling lighter than she had since she arrived in France, Lacey emerged from the subway at Ecole Militaire, practically skipped down the Parc du Champ de Mars, and was rewarded by the riveting sight of the symbol of Paris familiar from all the photographs, the Eiffel Tower, a monument to structural steel, the sweat of untold workers, and the eccentric vision of Gustave Eiffel. It stood massive and proud with its multiple latticed layers, looking both monumental and as airy as lace. She breathed a sigh of relief; she felt almost giddy. Standing still for a moment, she savored the sight. Like any tourist on vacation, she pulled out her camera and took photos. Ah, Paris. If only she could ask someone to take her picture here. That’s me at the Eiffel Tower, Mom, it’s the tall thing behind me. But of course that was the whole point of this outing, to see a little bit of Paris entirely on her own.
“Smithsonian! There you are! Wait up!” Griffin’s oh-so-English accent came from somewhere close behind her and it scraped her nerves like a cheese grater. This was not the way she intended to see the city, with a British barnacle on her butt.
Her moment of solitary elation suddenly deflated, Lacey whirled around to see his lanky figure running to catch up with her. He was thin, but he sure wasn’t fit. He was wheezing as if he’d run a mile. She snapped his photograph with his mouth open and eyes shut.
“Why do you have to walk so fast?” He was out of breath. Out of shape. A smoker.
“What the hell do you want?” She wasn’t feeling very friendly toward Griffin. She tucked the camera back into her leather bag and resumed walking briskly toward the Tower.
He tried to match her steps as they quickened. “Thought we could talk. Quietly. Without. That. Bugger. Kepelov,” he gasped. “Good Lord, slow down, would you?”
“Oh, you mean your buddy, Kepelov?” She stopped short and turned on him. “Why? To give you another chance to search my room? Wasn’t it enough the first time?”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Your little plan yesterday, you and Kepelov. Waylaying us? All that blather about working together? Just to keep us busy long enough to send your accomplice into the hotel, search our rooms? What’s the matter? Didn’t find anything?”
“Look, Smithsonian, I had no part in anything like that, you have to believe me.” She snorted and resumed charging ahead. “Hold on! Someone actually tossed your rooms? I had no idea. Must have been Gregor’s little scheme.” Griffin sounded genuinely distressed. “He’s a bloody bastard. Really.”
“What’s the matter, didn’t he tell you? He doesn’t trust you either?”
“Don’t blame me.” He advanced on her and she started walking.
“So who is she?” Lacey tossed the question over her shoulder.
“Who?”
She stopped and faced him. “The woman who searched our rooms. Who is she?”
“I have no bloody idea!” Griffin leaned over and coughed, trying to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. “None at all. How do you even know it’s a woman?”
“The scent of a strange perfume was wafting throug
h the room when I returned. It’s a woman. Or you.” Lacey didn’t tell him the aroma was just on the edge of a memory that she couldn’t quite recall. “I’d say it must be her signature scent.”
“I don’t know any woman who’d do that.”
“Who’s Kepelov’s girlfriend? ‘Long and Leggy,’ you called her. Or ‘Short and Chubby’?”
“I don’t know. I swear.”
“Tell me her name.”
“Sorry. It’s always a different one. I haven’t met the new one. I don’t even know how he pulls them, either. It’s not his charm and beauty.” He coughed again and shook his head. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Got a light?”
“Don’t you dare light that here,” she growled. “That’s the Eiffel Tower!”
He looked at the cigarettes, considered a moment, then put the pack away. He sighed. “You’re a little cranky today.”
“Maybe I just get that way when I’m attacked and people search my rooms and invade my privacy. Did you ever think about that? And maybe I get cranky when I’m followed by lying thugs and jackasses. Like you.” Her one moment of freedom in Paris had been taken away by this jerk. And she vowed she would see that he suffered for it.
“This no-smoking business,” he wheezed, “is this a Yank thing?”
“No, it’s a don’t-mess-with-Lacey-Smithsonian thing. You’re not very smart, are you?”
“Don’t get personal, please. It’s not very nice.”
“Her name, Griffin. I want her name.” Lacey advanced on him and he backed up.
“He didn’t tell me. Besides, I’ve never seen this one. I’ve only heard tales.”
“What kind of tales?”
“The usual, kinky sex, that kind of thing. You know, boy stuff. But as far as anything else goes, believe me, Smithsonian, Kepelov’s cut me right out of the loop.”
“Bull. First you say you don’t even know him, you’ve only heard of him, you’re fwightened of the big bad Kepelov. Then suddenly you’re buddies, partners, chums. Now you whine that your pal doesn’t tell you anything. Every time I see you, you have a new story. Just pick one, Griffin. And tell it to someone else.” She turned and stormed on ahead, determined to get to the top of the biggest tourist trap in town alone. If Griffin persisted in following her to the Eiffel tower, she could call security. Perhaps he’d fall off; it could happen. Perhaps she would take the stairs. That would kill him for sure.
He caught up with her again, breathing hard. “Wait! Please!”
“Leave me alone.”
Griffin grabbed her arm. She tried to shake him off. “Get your big fat hands off me!”
“You don’t understand,” he pleaded, gasping for breath.
Griffin ought to be in better shape, Lacey thought. He wasn’t that old, maybe mid-thirties. He was puffing like a steam engine, but he was hanging on for dear life, she couldn’t shake off his grip. Suddenly, the air was charged with something she couldn’t quite define and she was aware of another presence looming over them. Griffin was suddenly wrenched away from her and Lacey found herself briefly thrown off balance.
“She said leave her alone,” a familiar deep voice said.
Oh yes. Testosterone. That’s what Lacey had been missing. She didn’t trust her ears and she was almost afraid to look at the speaker for fear she had only imagined he was there. Her eyes glanced at the shadow of him, long and tall, with a stance that was instantly familiar. He was wearing cowboy boots and lean faded jeans, a beat-up black leather jacket, and a black turtleneck. Then she looked at his face and her heart caught in her throat.
They shared a long look that was solace to her soul, right before he hauled off and punched Griffin in his soft gut, sending the Brit sprawling on the ground beneath the Eiffel Tower.
Lacey took out her camera again and shot a handful of photographs of Griffin rolling on the pavement, clutching his guts and gasping for air. She allowed herself to savor the moment.
Then she turned to face the man in the cowboy boots.
Chapter 21
Lacey drank in the sight of Victor Donovan. From his curly dark brown hair to his well-worn boots, Donovan looked as broodingly handsome as any French movie star, but he was one-hundred-percent American. And he looked good to Lacey. Maybe too good. She didn’t know what to say. Finally she breathed his name.
“Vic? What are you doing here?”
“Taking out the trash.” He gestured toward Griffin without taking his eyes off Lacey. The Brit was now sitting on the ground, holding his midsection. “And I do mean trash.”
“Very efficiently too.” She glanced briefly at Griffin. “Thank you.” How on earth was it possible that Vic was standing here right in front of her?
“Donovan? Bloody hell.” Griffin looked nauseous. “What the devil are you doing in Paris?”
“You never learn, Nigel,” Vic said. “You have to block that punch. Or roll with it. You can’t do either one. And you can’t run worth a damn either. You’re hopeless.”
Lacey’s eyes went wide in amazement. “You know this guy?” she asked Vic.
Donovan just rolled his eyes, so Griffin filled the silence. “Prep school, wasn’t it, Donovan? Dear old St. Albans, back in the District. Back in the day.” Griffin seemed slightly recovered as he staggered to his feet. “You look well, old man. I’ve felt better actually.”
“Put a sock in it,” Donovan said without turning around.
“Vic! You went to prep school? With this twit?” Lacey asked. Prep school, bastion of rich boys everywhere? And Vic? This wasn’t possible.
“A proud wearer of the jacket and tie,” Griffin interjected. “Both of us. I have the photographs to prove it. Somewhere. No need to show the lady the secret handshake, old man, I’ll vouch for you.”
Lacey was absorbing too much information at once. “Military school, Vic, I could believe that. But prep school? I thought you went to high school in Alexandria. A normal high school.”
Vic Donovan, the man she knew as a country boy from Northern Virginia, a military brat, a University of Colorado graduate, a former chief of police of both Sagebrush and Steamboat Springs, Colorado, and now running his father’s security consulting firm, was right at home in a trout stream, a tent, a cabin, a Jeep, a police cruiser, or on a stakeout. A regular guy, with the soul of a cop. Lacey couldn’t picture him as a teenage preppie, wearing TopSiders without socks, with friends named Muffy, Buffy, and Biff, not to mention Nigel Griffin. But then judging from the way Vic greeted him, they were possibly not the best of old friends. Vic wasn’t answering the prep school question. And Lacey had more pressing questions.
“How did you get here?”
“I had a ticket to Paris, Lacey. Be a shame to waste it.”
“But you didn’t want to come to Paris.” He smiled and shrugged. “A wasted ticket? That can’t be the whole reason, can it?”
“No, that isn’t all, sweetheart.” He put his hands on his hips.
When is he ever going to put them around me, she wondered.
“You said you hated Paris! You said everybody smokes in restaurants here! You said they let dogs smoke in restaurants here!”
“It’s true, you know,” Griffin cut in. “I believe they do. I bummed a ciggie off Fifi the poodle just yesterday at the Café les Deux Magots.” He fished his pack of smokes out of his pocket again. “Anybody got a light?”
“Put those away or I’ll hit you myself this time,” Lacey said.
“Sit, Nigel,” Vic commanded. Griffin sighed. He moved out of range of Donovan’s fists and sat down on the ground. They ignored him.
Lacey looked at Vic. “You have to tell me why. Right here. Right now.”
He took a deep breath and faced her, his green eyes alight with something she couldn’t put a name to. “You’re going to make this hard, aren’t you?”
Lacey stood her ground. This was a moment of decision and it had better be good, because her heart was in danger of breaking.
She couldn’t speak for fear she would burst into tears.
“It’s like this.” He paused, then he rushed on. “I love you, Lacey Smithsonian.”
“You do? You love me? Say that again, cowboy. Please.”
“I love you, Lacey. Because of you I came to the last place on earth I ever wanted to see again. Paris.”
“Paris is lovely,” she said, feeling a little tongue-tied. “And I—I would love to—to see Paris. With you. Now that you’re here—” He said he loves me. Then why wouldn’t he come to Paris with me? “Wait a minute, you’ve been here before?”
“Long time ago. Not a fond memory. And you know they let just anybody in? Like him.” Vic gestured at Griffin, slumped miserably on the ground.
“Watch the insults, mate.” Griffin struggled to his feet and poked his head in between them. “I have to say I didn’t expect to see you either, Donovan. Didn’t exactly make my day.”
Lacey shoved him and he toppled back to the ground. “Will you stop interrupting people!” She focused her attention on Vic. Her nerves were on edge, her stomach in a jumble, her heart pumping furiously. She remembered a day in the spring when Vic arrived at her apartment before dawn just so he could take her to see the cherry blossoms at sunrise at the Tidal Basin. What happened in Paris? Did a woman break his heart in Paris? “And you, I thought we broke up. Didn’t we?”
“I didn’t break up with you. I said I needed to step back and take a breath.” Vic sighed heavily. “That’s all. You’re the one who got all carried away about breaking up.”
“Carried away?” Her cheeks started to burn. “I did not!” Vic stepped in, held her in his arms and kissed her, leaving her dizzy.
“You take my breath away, Lacey,” he murmured. “You always have. To tell you the truth, you scare the hell out of me.”
“Oh, you’re not supposed to tell her that, Donovan!” Griffin interjected. “You’re giving away the bloody game, mate, the Holy Grail. Women have already got the upper hand—don’t give away the whole bloody store. Men afraid of women?” Griffin smacked himself in the forehead. “Of course men are afraid of women! Some little vixen’s got the great Kepelov wrapped around her finger, and now you, you turncoat.”
Raiders of the Lost Corset Page 17
