Mona Lisa's Room

by Vonnie Davis

  “What?” Dear God, no! He stormed back the hallway into the bedroom. The empty bedroom. He pulled open the closet and stared at the empty space. Dammit! “How long ago did she leave?”

  “How should I know?”

  Niko wheeled around so angry with Giselle’s attitude and her failure to keep Aly safe that, for the first time in his life, he wanted to hurt a woman.

  Giselle stepped back, obviously intimidated by his menacing glare. “Don’t look at me like that. I am sure she is fine.”

  “You were sure she was taking a nap, too, weren’t you? Dammit, Giselle, you weren’t doing your job!” Why would Aly leave? The sound of Giselle’s infernal knuckle popping grated on his nerves, and instinctively he knew… “What did you say to her?”

  “What is her attraction, Niko? I found an empty champagne bottle and a caviar can in the trash. Did you seduce her last night?” She flung herself at him in a jealous rage, hissing threats.

  He grabbed her forearms. “What the hell’s wrong with you? We ended our affair a month ago. You should be over that by now. I should have known better than to get involved with a coworker. Those things never end well.”

  Giselle’s eyes flashed anger. “Those things? Is that how you view us? You contemptible bastard!”

  “Get out. Report back to Henri. See what he can find for you to do. I’ll be placing a report in your employment file of how you screwed up this assignment.”

  “You will not get her back. Not in your bed, that is for sure.” She smirked in a self-satisfied manner.

  He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. “You vengeful bitch! What did you say to her?”

  Giselle turned and sauntered out of the bedroom. “Poor Niko. What will he do without his American lover?”

  Niko speed-dialed “one.” After four rings, he was kicked into voice mail. “Aly, where the hell are you? Have you forgotten the danger you’re in? Call me so I can come get you. I don’t know what lies Giselle told you, but if you’ll give me a chance, I’ll explain. Call me.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, willing himself to think, to analyze. Breathe, man. Calm. Remain calm and think. Think, dammit! She had to be in the city. Granted, she could have taken the train to another location, but with no passport, she couldn’t leave the country. Besides, she had an appointment at the U.S. Embassy at ten on Monday morning to obtain her passport. No, she’d still be in the city, but where?

  When his second phone call to her was kicked into voice mail, he tried a different approach. “Cherie, you promised you wouldn’t leave me. You promised you’d let me take care of you. Sweetheart, you’re in very real danger. There have been more bombings.” His irritation nearly choked him. “Dammit, Aly, answer this damn phone!”

  He made a call to Henri and then called Jean-Luc. “Buddy, got a situation.”

  “Yeah?” Computer keys were clacking. Jean-Luc was doing what he was best at.

  “Aly’s gone.”

  “Who’s Aly?”

  Niko took a deep breath and tried to tamper down fear. Aly was not Hae-Won. “Ms. Moore, the woman I’m supposed to be protecting. I left her in Giselle’s care while I was in the office this morning. When I returned to the safe house, Aly was gone.”

  “Three problems. One, you’re calling her Aly, which signifies a personal interest. Two, she’s not Hae-Won. You’ll get her back. Three, you had Giselle—volatile, impulsive Giselle—within ten meters of her.”

  Niko ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Giselle was next up on the rotation for off-hour duty. But, yeah, you’re right. On all points, I’m afraid. I need your help.”

  “Okay. Give me a list of what you want done.”

  He gave instructions for Jean-Luc to send an agent to each of the train stations just in case Aly decided to go out of town for the weekend. While he gave other orders for search and apprehension, he paced the small bedroom. Dembri could not get his hands on Aly the way he had Hae-Won. Aly, with her sweet softness, would not survive this madman’s torture. Something in the little trash container in the bathroom caught his eye. Her new Pradas. “Tell everyone to be on the lookout for a slender, busty blonde wearing ugly black flip-flops.” Hell, she must really be pissed to toss away her new Pradas. He retrieved them from the trash container and wiped them off, all the while thinking of how he’d make her pay for disobeying his orders once he found her. So help me God, I will find her!

  ****

  When Alyson stepped into Aukland’s les Arts Atelier, she was grateful for the cool interior of the little shop. Marie-Clare Aukland was chatting with a middle-aged woman and turned at the jangle of the bell over the door. “Alyson, from America. Come meet Josette. She works for me a few days a week so I can have a life outside of this little shop.”

  Once the introductions were made, Marie-Clare led Alyson upstairs to her apartment. “Pierre and I lived here for many years. We bought this building about the time our son started public school. I grew up in Paris, but Pierre was from Villerville. He came here to study art and never went back. Not to live anyway.

  “We bought a little apartment in Villerville, along the English Channel. It is where we spent so many relaxing holidays and vacations watching the seagulls and listening to the water lap against the shore. I often think of selling this and moving there. It is so peaceful.” She unlocked the door and stepped aside so Alyson could wheel her carry-on into the hallway.

  “I really appreciate your taking me in like this. When I called earlier, I was hoping I could impose on you for a hotel reference, not compel you to open your home to me.”

  “Nonsense.” Marie-Clare waved her hand emphatically. “I felt flattered you thought enough of me to ask my opinion. Women my age are invisible to the world, you see. People think I am just another, useless old woman. No one thinks I can be of any assistance any more. You coming to me like this has put a delightful spark back into my dreary life. I welcome it. I plan to enjoy every moment we have together. Follow me, dear.” She led Alyson to a small bedroom. “This petite chamber is yours for as long as you like. Make yourself at home.”

  A single bed covered in yellow hugged the wall. The small room contained an antique desk and chair and a small dresser. She shrugged off her shoulder bag and set it, along with the parcel containing the picture Marie-Clare had given her the day before, on the bed. The carry-on she placed in the small closet.

  “I’m so glad to be rid of my burdens. My shoulders and arms ache. Coming here was a longer walk than I thought, but I enjoyed seeing the sights. I love the buildings and the energy of the streets as Parisians hurry here and there.”

  The older woman smiled and took Alyson’s hands in hers. “Come, I will make us a pot of tea and we shall talk. Oui?” She led the way to a lovely salon, its French doors slightly ajar to allow fresh air to circulate.

  Minutes later, they were sipping herbal tea and eating French pastries. “I can’t get over the beauty of pastries here. They’re like miniature works of art. Yet French women remain slender.”

  “Oui. It is the walking, you see. Keeps us trim. Now, tell me what has happened since I saw you last. First, I made appointments for us to have our hair done and manicures. You were so upset when you called. When a woman is upset, I have always found a few hours of indulgence can work wonders.” She glanced at the gold antique watch pin worn on her brown linen dress. “We must leave in thirty minutes for the salon. Normally one cannot get last minute appointments with Christophe. He is in such a demand. But when I told him who you were, the lady who saved the Mona Lisa, well, he insisted we come in. Christophe is a genius, an artist. He will transform you.”

  Marie-Clare dropped a sugar cube into her tea cup and stirred. “Now, tell me, what has happened that has you so upset. You must tell me every detail.” A twinkle lit her eyes.

  Fifteen minutes later, Marie-Clare pressed her wrinkled hands to her cheeks in obvious disbelief. “You threw away a new pair of Pradas?”

  Alyson set her second cup of tea
on a saucer. “Yes. I was so angry. I never do things on impulse, but I did today. I just tossed those shoes in the trash.” She groaned. “All that money wasted.”

  “You care for him. Oui? Perhaps even love him?”

  “Oh, Marie-Clare, you misunderstand.”

  “No, my dear, in matters of the heart, I understand all too well.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Marie-Clare gathered their cups and saucers, setting them on the silver tray. “I think what you need first of all is a disguise. Oui? You’ll be safer. You can come and go undetected by those terrorists. It is a good idea. Don’t you think?

  “Oh, this will be so much fun. I will have Christophe color your hair and give it a chic cut.” She touched a fingertip to her cheek as if mentally working out a plan. “Perhaps sunglasses to hide those lovely blue eyes. Minor changes to make you safer. Oui, this we do. Come.”

  Alyson couldn’t face lugging around her shoulder bag again, so she removed her Visa and euros, slipping them into the pockets of her jeans. She checked her phone, too. There were several voice mails. She listened to the first one. It was Niko demanding she call. No doubt the other messages were from him, too. She couldn’t deal with him now, if ever. She slid the phone back into her yellow shoulder bag.

  When she thought of how she responded to Niko’s advances and how close she came to sleeping with him, she was both ashamed and angry. She’d be better off ignoring his voice mails and texts. Obviously she had little willpower where he was concerned.

  Wasn’t she fine before she met Niko Reynard? She’d be fine without him, too. Today, she was taking charge of her life, keeping herself safe from the terrorists and Niko’s dark eyes and magic fingers. She sighed and rolled her eyes. And his talented lips.

  The terrorists knew her as a blonde. Once Christophe dyed her hair and she donned a pair of sunglasses, she’d be difficult to recognize. There was much of Paris to see yet, and she was determined to see the sights. Paris was changing her and she loved it. Her once regimented life became a spinning vortex, drawing her into new experiences and new worlds.

  Christophe Robin’s salon on the first floor of the Maurice Hotel was certainly another world. Cream walls and elegant furnishings in understated style flourished beneath sky-painted ceilings. The first thought that screamed through Alyson’s mind was, I can’t afford this. Then another wiser, more feminine one countered. Perhaps you can’t afford not to. You need a disguise; one the terrorists won’t recognize.

  For the next three hours, Christophe’s team pampered her in ways she only read about in magazines. Wait until she told Gwen about this head-to-toe experience. Scrumptious was the only word that came to mind. She had a manicure and pedicure, haircut and color. Now the team was applying makeup. She’d long since given up worrying over the cost. Surely her safety was worth it.

  When Christophe spun her chair around so she could see herself, she merely blinked. Who was this woman with the chin-length bobbed haircut? He’d given her jagged bangs and an eye-popping color. Venetian red, Christophe called the shade when he applied it. She looked like a model. A smile blossomed and grew. She, boring, staid Alyson Moore looked like a red-headed vixen.

  “Well, cherie, you look magnifique, oui?”

  “You are a genius, Christophe.”

  “Well, yes, we know this, but now, you are a beauty. You look much younger, sexier, desirable. Oui?”

  “Oui, merci beaucoup.” Alyson stood and hugged Christophe. “Thank you for squeezing me into your schedule.”

  “Christophe gave you a beautiful disguise. No?” He fussed a little more with her hair. “Oh, how I will regale my clients with stories of you, our American heroine with karate moves that topple giants. Go now, shoo. Get dressed. I believe Marie-Clare, who I call Mother-Sunshine-in-Stilettos, has a new outfit for you. I saw her come in with bags.” He placed his hands on the shoulders of her white terrycloth robe and turned her toward the dressing room.

  Marie-Clare was waiting, practically exploding with anticipation. “Ah, I hardly recognize you. What a transformation. Do you feel better, my dear?”

  “Yes. I feel marvelous.” She did. With all that had happened or nearly happened in the last twenty-four hours, suddenly she felt rejuvenated and beautiful. Whatever today cost her, it was worth it. She eyed the bags Marie-Clare was holding. “Are those for me?”

  “Oui. Since I didn’t get my hair colored, I had time to shop while you did. I found this delightful dress in a vintage shop. It was a marché, a bargain. Slip it on, and we shall see how it looks.” She handed Alyson the pink bag.

  Alyson stepped into the dressing cubicle and removed the robe. In the shopping bag was a rather short black stretchy dress. She slipped it on, straightened the cap sleeves and tried to pull up the low neckline to no avail. Tugging on the hem didn’t help the brevity of the dress, either. She checked her image in the full-length mirror. It fit her body too well. She turned to view the back and grimaced. If she had a mole on her rump, it would have shown through the dress. The thing fit like a second skin. The front overlapped in a gathered stretch design that hugged her curves.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. “I’m dying to see it on you. Open the door.”

  When Alyson stepped out of the dressing room, Marie-Clare clapped her hands. “Tres magnifique! Oh, my dear, wait until Niko sees you in this. It will take his breath away.”

  “It’s so tight, it’s taking my breath away. You don’t think it’s too…”

  “Too what, my dear?” Marie-Clare took Alyson’s hand. “Listen, in matters such as this, Marie-Clare knows. Oui? In battle, one must wear armor.” She shrugged. “This little dress is merely your armor in the battle of love.”

  Alyson glanced down at the dress. “Little being the optimal word here.”

  Marie-Clare, self-appointed war general, handed her a shoebox. “Put these on. They’ll make a slave out of him.” She winked. “He will not know what hit him.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I want to make a slave out of him. He has a girlfriend, after all.” She opened the lid and smoothed back the tissue. “I’m going to pay you back for these and for the dress, too.”

  Marie-Clare waved an impatient hand. “Put them on. I’m eager to see the entire effect.”

  The shoes, stilettos, of course, were red platforms with ankle straps. Alyson held one out, turning it around. “Looks like something a whore would wear.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what Niko will think and they will drive him to his knees.” She got a faraway expression on her wrinkled face. “I had a pair quite similar my Pierre just adored. Every woman should have some tricks up her sleeve. A hint of sex. Oui?”

  Alyson’s gaze slid from the shoes to the little woman in front of her. “Marie-Clare, these shoes don’t hint sex. They scream it.”

  “Oui, from time to time a woman must scream sex, but silently, you understand.”

  After Alyson put on the shoes, her senior sex instructor slipped some narrow red bangles on her wrist. Then she presented her with a pair of black-framed sunglasses with rhinestones across the top of the frames. Marie-Clare folded the jeans and blouse Alyson wore earlier into the shopping bag while Alyson preened in front of the mirror. Good Lord, I look like a call girl, a hooker, a woman primed for sex. She turned slowly and laughed. Good thing I’m in Paris, ’cause I would never step out on the streets of Asheville dressed like this.

  “I can’t believe how different I look.” She looked confident and sexy. Well, one would have to be confident to wear this outfit, wouldn’t they? Who was this woman?

  Two hours later, Alyson was arrested for solicitation. It was undoubtedly the shoes.

  She hadn’t done a thing wrong. Okay, so maybe she flirted with the guy sitting at the table next to them at the café where she and Marie-Clare stopped for a glass of wine. Granted, if she’d had more to eat that day than a couple bites of croissant, the wine wouldn’t have gone to her head and made her so chatty. Still, she did not solicit that
undercover policeman. Not that she always understood what he was saying—or what she was saying in return. Her wine-hazed mind and minimal understanding of the language might have contributed to her arrest, too. Marie-Clare tried correcting her faulty French, but the undercover policeman ignored the older woman; he was focused on her. All those things combined probably contributed to her arrest.

  But mainly, it was those damn red stilettos.

  When she said—or thought she said—after the man’s compliment about her shoes she’d have to pay her friend back for them, the policeman slapped handcuffs on her. Maybe her phrasing was a tad off…

  ****

  Niko was in his office, frantically going over reports pertaining to the search for Aly. If he didn’t have a nervous breakdown first, he was going to kill the woman. Where in God’s name could she be? He spent hours driving the streets of Paris looking for her. He went to every place he took Aly yesterday, including the hotel and Marie-Clare’s. Or he tried to. Marie-Clare’s little shop was closed and no one answered his knock upstairs at her apartment. So, he came here to keep his finger on the pulse of the search for Aly and the investigation into The Red Hand.

  Large LCD screens filled one wall of the unit’s command center. As a matter of habit, his gaze swept over the many screens—observing, analyzing and reacting within a couple blinks of an eye. This was his milieu. He was at home here. He’d rather be here than anywhere else, or so Hae-Won claimed. Only now…only now he wanted to be with Aly and this shift in priorities rattled him. No woman ever came before his job. Until her.

  His phone rang, and he snatched the receiver off the cradle. “Yeah.”

  “Captain Reynard, this is Louis Breton at the criminal holding area. We just got a prostitute in here who says she knows you.”

  “What the hell? Me? Are you sure she said she knows me?” He didn’t have time to deal with this nonsense. “I’m in anti-terrorism, not vice.”