by Vonnie Davis
She poked a finger in his back. “I can’t breathe. You’re smothering me.”
He unlocked the door to her room, took her by the arm and pushed her inside. Closing the door and locking it, he shoved her up against it and stood close, his hands gripping her arms and their thighs touching. “If you want to live to see the United States again, you will do exactly as I say, when I say it and the way I say it. Is that clear?” He shook her gently. “You will not leave my sight.”
Good Lord, those blue eyes. A man could dive into them and drown in their beauty. That mouth. She had lips made for kissing. If he bent his head… What the hell am I thinking? He stepped back and took a long cleansing breath. He never lost control.
Her eyes snapped with anger and she inhaled an indignant breath. “Don’t you yell at me, you pompous, arrogant little twit! I’ll be damned if I’ll obey your every command. Through no fault of my own, I’ve had one helluva day. One that probably took twenty years off my life. Now you want to shove me around like some errant school child? Order me about as if I don’t have the brains to blow my own nose? Oh, I think not, buster. You better jump back, jack!”
She poked her finger in his chest to emphasize every word. He fought back a grin. Damn, she surprised him. Maybe she wasn’t as soft as he thought. Maybe there was a core of strength nestled in all that softness. Maybe he liked her all huffy and bitchy. Maybe he’d push her from time to time just to see the fire flash in those eyes again.
However, life in his profession had no room for maybes, only absolutes. He stared at her and tamped down the growing attraction—and he was most definitely attracted.
He took another step back, relieved to be away from the effects of her enticing fragrance and the power of her blue eyes. “Fair enough. Is everything the way you left it?”
“What?”
“Look around. Does anything seem moved, disturbed in any way?” The room was artfully decorated. The French would call it charmingly chic; Americans, small. How does she see it?
“Well, the bed’s made and the dirty towels are gone.” She turned. “You think someone was in here snooping around? Touching my things?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I can’t dwell on that. If I do, it’ll ruin the memories I have of staying here. I love this room. Look at my view of the steeple of the des-Prés Church.” She waved her hand at her windows as she talked about her view. “I really hate leaving it.”
Niko opened the tiny closet and removed her carry-on. He tossed it on the bed. “Pack enough for three days. No white sneakers. No shorts or capris. They label you as American.”
“But I’m wearing capris and white sneakers now.”
“I know. I want you to blend in with the crowd, not stand out.” He rifled through her things hanging in the closet, chose a red and black floral sundress and extended it to her. “Here. Put this on. Heels, did you bring heels? All French women wear heels. It’s part of their DNA.”
“I’m not French.”
Niko hunkered down to peruse her poor selection of shoes and shook his head. “That much is obvious.” His oldest sister, Margo, the shoe maven of the family, would die at this scant and hideous selection of shoes. He stood, holding a pair of black flat sandals. “You came to Paris without packing a pair of heels?” He waved the shoes at her and sneered. “What are these ugly things?”
She snatched them from his grasp. “They’re flip flops. Very comfortable.” Her chin elevated a notch in obvious irritation, and he wanted to laugh. His sister Simone did the same thing when she was pissed.
“They’re uglier than a baboon’s ass.”
Her eyes widened and flashed again. Oh yeah, I most definitely like seeing her pissed. There was passion buried inside her and that delighted him. A passion buried so deep beneath the controlled, icy exterior the woman probably didn’t know it existed.
“I’ll tell you what’s ugly, young man—your haughty attitude.”
God she was glorious with her shoulders reared back and her eyes flashing. He’d yank her chain a little more. Being the youngest boy in a large family meant he had plenty of experience at annoying people. He took delight in provoking his siblings. “My attitude is not half as ugly as those baggy clothes you’re wearing.”
“What did you just say?” She tugged at the sides of her wrinkled white capris. “These are new. I bought them especially for my trip. My sister said they look fabulous.”
Niko snorted, hoping the sound would animate her eyes again. She seemed almost dead back at headquarters. He liked her better angry and mad as hell. “Capris, when worn, should be worn with heels.”
“Well, pardon me. I didn’t know I was in the presence of Niko Guicci, world renowned fashion police.”
“Frenchmen know fashion.” When she made a growling noise, he turned away and smirked. Mission accomplished. He rifled through the shelves at the end of her closet where she stored her sleepwear and lingerie.
“What are you doing? Those are my personal things.”
When he turned, he held up a red sheer bra and matching thong. “Now these are more like it. Put them on.”
The emotions that played across her face as it bloomed redder than the most excellent lingerie he dangled in front of her were priceless. She sputtered and gestured aimlessly with her hands, opening and closing her mouth in mute embarrassment. “Those are not mine. I mean, they’re mine, but I didn’t buy them.” She raised her gaze to his. “They were a gift from my sister. She told me to wear them for some handsome Frenchman to drive him wild.” She snatched them from his outstretched hands and laughed in a self-conscious manner. “As if I could ever drive a man wild…”
“Take a quick shower and change. I have some calls to make.” The gentle tone in his voice surprised him. Until now, the only people who touched that part of him were family. Certainly not his coworkers or the myriad of women he briefly dated. He was responding to her—well, to be precise, his libido was responding—which could be dangerous, both professionally and personally.
“Shouldn’t I pack?”
“I’ll pack. You shower. Most women feel better after a shower. Don’t you agree?”
She stilled and looked up at him. “What makes you the expert in women?”
“Four sisters and one very beautiful Italian mother.”
He’d just finished packing for her when the bathroom door opened a crack. “Niko?” She held out a flight-sized bottle. “This isn’t my shampoo.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s my bottle, but the contents aren’t mine. I’ve used the same shampoo for years because I love the smell of it, but this has a strange odor.”
In a few long strides, he was in the tiny bathroom with her. The shower was still running. She was clasping a towel around her wet, trim body. Water from her shoulder-length blonde hair dripped onto the floor.
He sniffed the acidic smelling mixture in the pink plastic bottle. “Did you use any of it?”
“No, I’m a creature of habit. I always sniff my shampoo after opening it.” She raised a trembling hand to her mouth while retaining a death grip on the towel with her other hand. “Dear Lord, he was here, wasn’t he?”
Niko snatched the wastepaper can from the floor and began throwing away all her toiletries and makeup. “We’ll get you new things later. Don’t use anything. Don’t touch the hair dryer either. Finish your shower and get dressed. I need to get you out of here. Damn Dembri.”
By the time she stepped out of the bathroom, he’d called Laurant stationed down in the lobby. He met the agent in the hallway outside the room to hand over the container of toiletry items for analysis and to upbraid him for not being more vigilant.
Figuring the hotel room was bugged, he went to the end of the hallway to call his superior. Someone from Dembri’s organization tampered with Ms. Moore’s things. The bad guys were three steps ahead of the good guys. Niko was not a happy man.
Ms. Moore stood just outside the bathroom as if frozen to the spot. Her face was pale
, her blue eyes wide with fright. Being scared was one thing, but being immobilized with terror would not help her. He had to make her angry, hoping to tap into her passion. What could he say to piss her off again?
“Well, Mrs. Moore, you no longer resemble a sloppy American.” Fact was she looked good in that low-cut sundress. Damned good. While he’d always been a leg man, he had a healthy appreciation for the breast portion of the female anatomy, and her breasts were quite eye-catching. The wide skirt that emphasized her trim waist skimmed shapely calves. The woman was trouble in a sexy little package.
His calling her Mrs. was evidently like a cold slap to her face. She gave the desired response. “Let me give you a lesson in life, Niko. Never call a woman who endured twelve years of a cold marriage to a cheating husband by the title Mrs.” She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder.
He fought back a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Lesson number two. Never call a woman, who is one day shy of turning forty, ma’am. My first name, Alyson, will do nicely.”
He retrieved her carry-on from the bed and opened the door a crack. After checking the hallway and finding it empty, he glanced back over his shoulder, winked and purposely lowered his voice to a sensual purr. “Anything else you’d like to teach me, Aly?”
Chapter Three
The ride in the descending elevator was silent. Had the elevator been larger, Alyson would have stood as far away from Niko as she could. The man had his arm around her waist. She shot him an angry glare. “Get your paws off me!” she growled through clenched jaws.
“Relax, Aly. You’re practically vibrating with anger. As you said earlier, tomorrow you turn into an old woman. I mean, forty is practically ancient. This…this negative emotion cannot be good for your heart.”
Why, the ass was laughing at her. He pulled her even tighter to his side. She elbowed him and his eyebrows rose.
The nerve of the arrogant jerk. Being her protector didn’t give him permission to talk to her like that. Aly! The jerk called her Aly, as if he had the right to. No one ever shortened her name before. Why he even had the audacity to wink at her. She hadn’t been winked at in…well…had she ever been winked at?
When the elevator stopped, Niko became her protector once more. “Don’t stop for any reason. You take the suitcase should I have to draw my weapon.”
Fear strangled the vitality from her irritation. For a few seconds, she forgot Dembri and the danger she was in. She, a boring, middle-aged woman, drab, worn down by life and wearing black flip flops with pretty bows that were not ugly, thank you very much—and a red thong—was being pursued by a dangerous terrorist. If it weren’t so terrifying, it would be downright laughable.
Alyson grabbed the suitcase handle, her carry-on’s wheels squeaking in the silence of the lobby. She stopped and glared at it. “Wonder why the wheels are squeaking. They never did before.”
Niko stooped to examine the wheels. She nervously glanced around the lobby, looking for anyone suspicious. His muttering brought her attention back to him.
“I will be damned.” He stood, a dime-sized plastic object in his hand. “A tracking device. Whoever attached it put it too close to the wheel, thus the squeaking.”
“A tracking device? So they’d know where I was?” Panic reared its ugly grotesque head and wrapped its cold claws around her heart. Its grasp on her was so forceful, she started to tremble. “They really mean to get me, don’t they?” She turned her gaze to him.
Niko tilted his head and looked intently at her. “Yes, Aly. Any doubts we may have had back at headquarters are expunged now. Your life is in danger. I can’t impress upon you enough to question everything and everyone. If anything strikes you as odd, tell me.” He rubbed his hand up her arm and his touch caused a different kind of trembling deep inside.
Oh, God.
She wondered if he felt something, too, for he quickly pulled back.
“Promise me you’ll stay alert.”
She nodded and ran her hands up her arms, hoping to soothe her overloaded system. “What will you do with that?” She jerked her chin toward his other hand.
“I’ll throw it in one of the trash bins outside. Perhaps I should just carry the suitcase. We’ll be moving quickly to the car.” He lifted the suitcase and pressed his hand into the small of her back as they stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight.
Once Niko deposited the tracking device into one of the many green trash receptacles positioned along the street, they hurried to the Carrera. Alyson fastened her seat belt and leaned her head back against the headrest and exhaled a shaky breath. For some reason the confines of the car signaled shelter. Right at this moment, she’d seize any semblance of safety. A terrorist came into her hotel room, touched her things and replaced her shampoo with God only knows what. Then to make sure he knew her every movement, he concealed a tracking device by the wheel of her carry-on. Dear God, let me get home safely.
As they rode in silence through the streets of Paris, irritation seemed to pulsate from Niko. His jaw tensed, his eyes narrowed and his index finger drummed the steering wheel. Perhaps she should make small talk. He snapped on the radio. An Italian aria filled the confines of the car. Perhaps not. Perhaps it would be best to let him brood.
She wasn’t exactly a happy person right now, either. Her life was in turmoil, and she detested chaos. Plus, this trip cost her a small fortune. Now she’d be heading home early once she had a replacement passport in hand. Frankly, her disappointment at leaving Paris so soon was enormous; she planned on seeing many museums and art galleries. Maybe instead of going home, she could travel somewhere else. The Netherlands, perhaps, or Italy. Yes. Why not Italy? Her great-grandparents emigrated from Florence. Tracing one’s roots was always a thrill. She’d have to do some research first.
“Did you pack my laptop?” She turned in the seat toward him.
“Yes, but before you use it, I’ll need to run a debugging program or two on it.” Niko glanced at her. “Just in case Dembri knew enough to stick software in to hijack your personal information.”
Her stomach sank. “Have all my things been touched and tainted, do you think?”
“A good possibility, yes.” He looked at her again after quickly changing lanes.
“That’s not what I wanted to hear. I feel like everything I own is dirty. I feel…” Great, she was going to cry. She shifted in her seat and looked out the window. What a terrible damn day!
“Aly?” The car slowed. Drivers behind them honked. “You want me to pull over?”
“Leave me alone, please. I just need a minute to get a grip.” She blinked her tears away, digging deep and pulling out a measure of strength. She’d get through this. She was a survivor, after all. Being flexible to changes in her schedule was a trait she was working on; she loved routine. She took a deep, cleansing breath, willing herself to relax and deal. She’d be fine.
The beautiful Parisian architecture they passed snared her attention. Alyson imagined she saw the same streets several times. Niko was changing lanes quickly and making last-minute turns. Imagine, being chased out of Paris by a terrorist. Gwen, in her dramatic way, would love it.
“We’re back on Boulevard Saint Germain now.” Niko somehow eased the Carrera into a miniscule parking spot. “Time to go shopping.”
She needed toiletries and makeup, that was for sure, but when he took her hand and led her to Minelli’s, a shoe store, she balked. “Why are we going in here?”
Niko’s gaze slid to her feet. “To get rid of those flippin’ flops. I want you to blend in with other Parisian women. Believe me, you’ll be safer. Although a French woman would never go out in public with wet hair.” He ran his fingers into her hair and lifted it several times, as if he thought that would help dry it.
She batted at his wrists. “Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?”
“Don’t you enjoy a man’s touch?” He opened the door and ushered her i
nside.
Before Alyson could offer a pithy reply, an elegant French woman breezed over. “Bonjour Madame, Monsieur.” The saleswoman was obviously quite taken with Niko, batting her eyes and touching his arm as they spoke rapid-fire French. Of course it made no difference to her how the woman fawned over her young protector. Still, she resented being ignored like the proverbial bump on a log.
The shoe boutique was no larger than her living room back home. Scanning the artfully displayed leather shoes and purses, she noted there wasn’t a flat shoe in the entire store. She stepped over to the lowest heel she saw and picked it up. Niko ran his hand up her back, causing fluttering in places that hadn’t fluttered in eons. Really, the Frenchman was too touchy-feely. She flashed him her practiced, most potent school teacher scowl.
His lips twitched at the corners, almost as if he were going to laugh at her. Impudent man. “Come, sit so Mademoiselle can measure your foot.”
“I wear a seven and a half.”
“European sizes are different. Come, sit, and I’ll choose some styles for you to try.”
She wasn’t surprised all the shoes Niko chose had four-inch heels. “I think I’d rather pick my own shoes, thank you very much.”
He laughed softly, running his palm up her back before pointing out another pair for the saleswoman to bring him. Irritation boiled beneath the surface; she didn't like being railroaded.
“Tell her I want to try on that pair with the low wedge heel. The ones in the window.” She took a great deal of satisfaction when he rolled his eyes. That reaction alone made her want to buy them.
“They’re for old women.”
“Yes, and right now I feel very old.” Although, in reality, she didn’t. Much to her surprise, youthful feelings and thoughts were flooding in, inundating her parched and barren soul. What’s up with that?
When the saleswoman returned with her arms full of shoe boxes, Niko told her he’d take care of trying the shoes on his friend. The woman’s eyebrows shot up once and a coy smile blossomed. “Whatever Monsieur desires.” Then she winked at Alyson as if there were some kind of relationship going on between the two of them.
