The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  “Actually,” Martin smirked ever so slightly, “would you mind escorting Madame Guillot up here before you leave.”

  “Sure,” I went downstairs and found Vivi waiting near the elevators. I brought her to Martin’s office, making polite conversation along the way.

  “I’m taking the Guillots out to dinner before they fly back to Paris tomorrow. Vivi wanted to see the main office building and where Luc will be working,” Martin said as Luc and Vivi went down the hallway toward the modified conference room. I nodded and stepped closer to the elevator. “Want to join us?”

  “That’s not a good idea. Plus, I have a fridge full of leftovers calling my name.”

  “Leftovers?” Vivi said from behind. “No, you must join us. The boys will be discussing business, documents and mergers, and who knows what else. Please.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?” Tonight would be awkward. I remembered the difficulty in feigning interest in Martin; now I had to do the exact opposite. Catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the rather self-satisfied and smug look on his face.

  I followed the three of them to the restaurant. We were seated quickly, and as Vivi predicted, Martin and Guillot were discussing the European markets before the waitress even brought our drinks.

  “Thanks for not making me feel like an empty chair.” She smiled as she spoke.

  “Glad I could help.” We chatted easily about her impending move, the best places to shop, good restaurants nearby, and anything else that came to mind. The conversation was light and comfortable. By the time the main course arrived, I was feeling much more social and relaxed. I slipped off my suit jacket and hung it from the back of my chair.

  “Alexis, what happened?”

  Dammit, my internal voice muttered. Until now, she was unaware of my bandaged wrists. “Oh, this.” I played it off as if it were nothing. “Hazard of the job.” Martin watched me out of the corner of his eye. “Not this job. Different job.” I was a blundering mess. “As a security consultant, I work for different companies, doing different things. The last one didn’t go so well.”

  “D’accord.” Vivi nodded uncertainly. She looked confused, and I noticed three pairs of eyes staring at me.

  “Ms. Parker used to be a federal agent.” Martin attempted to salvage the conversation with some diplomacy. “Sometimes, things can be dangerous in her line of work. It’s how she first landed on my radar. I hired her to deal with the issue I was having at MT with a former board member.”

  “I see.” Guillot was aware of who he was replacing and why. There was a pregnant pause before he asked Martin, “Pardon me, I don’t mean to be so blunt, but is your upcoming surgery related to the injury you sustained in the shooting? I’m not sure why we’re advancing the timetable on my move if your surgery is simply elective.”

  It took a conscious effort to remain impassive toward this new information. When Martin and I were together in Paris, he mentioned surgery might be a possibility, but it never seemed like a definite thing. God, the ice pack the other day and everything else going on, I understood why he didn’t tell me, but he should have.

  “It’s not a big deal. Just a simple procedure to remove some scar tissue, but I want to make sure you are well-versed in the goings on at the office before I leave for a week or two.” Martin made it sound like he was taking a trip and wanted everyone to know the proper way to water the plants before he left.

  Vivi prattled on about something, and I tried to pay attention to her. I smiled and nodded, remaining outwardly calm for the rest of the evening. But once the check was paid, I stood up, wished the Guillots a safe trip home, and thanked them once again for allowing me to accompany them back to the States. Excusing myself graciously, I left the restaurant before my meltdown caused a scene.

  I paced my apartment because, after all, that is what I do. Some people smoke, drink, or engage in other reckless behavior; I pace. It was infuriating that two days ago, Martin sat at my kitchen table and said I wasn’t responsible for all the bad things that happened to people around me while, all the while, he had a surgery scheduled because I failed to do my job. Unfortunately, self-loathing and pity wouldn’t get me anywhere.

  In an attempt to be more productive, I dialed Ryan. It only occurred to me after the first ring that, given the time difference, he was probably asleep.

  “Alex?” Ryan sounded awake. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to know how things were going. I forgot about the time difference.”

  “It’s okay. I’m at work.” He paused, and I heard footsteps in the background. “Gustav’s given us locations for half a dozen of Abelard’s private safe houses. We’ve relocated Clare and still have her in protective custody in exchange for Gustav’s continued cooperation.”

  “Have you moved on the safe houses yet?” Even though I was thousands of miles away, the anxious energy radiated through the phone.

  “Soon. His tips better not be total rubbish.”

  “Wish I was there,” I retorted before my mind even had time to process the words.

  Ryan laughed cynically. “You’re daft, but when we get Abelard, I’ll tell him you said hello.”

  “Please do.” My own voice had an edge as we disconnected. At least Clare was innocent and someplace safe. Not everyone had been sucked into Abelard’s world or Jean-Pierre’s deception.

  With not much else to do, I cleaned and re-assembled my two handguns and decided to call it a night. I just got into bed when the phone rang. I ignored it. Martin would leave a message if he felt the need to talk things out.

  Twenty-seven

  The rest of the week moved by at a snail’s pace. I was once again unemployed with the exception of my retainer status at Martin Tech, so the majority of my free time was spent resting and recuperating. A few nights of rejuvenating sleep helped my wrists and chest heal. There were still a few tender areas, but for the most part, I was fine. It would probably be another month or two before the dark pink scars disappeared or at least faded to a more tolerable level. In the meantime, they served as constant reminders Abelard was still on the loose, possibly tormenting someone else. A small part of me wanted to track the rat bastard to the sewer he was using as his refuge, but I couldn’t go back there. Not yet, anyway.

  Mark dropped off my radar. I agreed to his insane request to go back to work at the OIO and then nothing. Thanks so much for the added stress. Maybe Kendall wasn’t too keen on hiring a consultant with all my stipulations. Honestly, it was a relief since I didn’t want to endure the interrogative tactics of the Bureau’s shrink asking about every trauma I experienced in my life or at least my work life. The nightmares were barely being kept at bay as it was.

  Martin and I had a brief discussion about his surgery a couple of nights ago. His scar tissue was inflamed and pressing against the nerves, limiting his mobility and causing him discomfort. He tried to instill upon me his misguided belief I was not responsible, but I failed to agree. This, unfortunately, led to an argument which resulted in an apology dinner at his place. I made it as far as the driveway before calling and asking if we could meet somewhere else instead. The last time I was inside Martin’s house was when I was giving Detective O’Connell a very detailed recreation of the firefight surrounding Martin getting shot. I remembered vividly dry heaving in the toilet and didn’t want to relive any of those memories.

  It was Saturday afternoon, and I was sprawled out on the couch, reading a book, when there was a knock on my door. I ran through my routine of checking to see who it was and unlocking the various locks. Luckily, Martin learned to listen, and I nodded to Bruiser, who smiled briefly before retreating down the hallway toward the stairwell.

  “Did we have plans?” I asked confused as I put my handgun on the end table. I was aware of how paranoid I still was. Moving would be a good idea, but there were no other affordable apartments I liked.

  “No,” Martin smiled, “I decided to be spontaneo
us. What do you think?”

  His smile was infectious, so I resisted the urge to give him a speech about how crazy and dangerous my life could be. Right now, the threats were at a minimum. “At the moment, I like it but only because I have nothing going on.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” He cocked an eyebrow up suggestively. “I was thinking we should spend the rest of the weekend together in bed since you appear to be feeling better, but you shouldn’t take any chances with your recovery.”

  “I thought we were taking things slow.”

  “It’s been a week. We aren’t dead.”

  I exhaled. His words, while meant to be playful, still made me take a step back.

  “You know what I mean.” He sensed my trepidation.

  “Maybe we should see how today goes and take it from there.” Giving him a tentative kiss, I retreated into the kitchen. He was eyeing me enticingly, but I ignored him.

  “Okay, if you’re sure you can contain yourself because I do remember someone attempting to molest me in the middle of a hotel hallway,” he mused, and I threw a dish towel at him but didn’t take the bait. “So, what would you like to do today, sweetheart?”

  We spent the rest of the day in the confines of my apartment. I was astounded by Martin’s patience on the matter, probably because he never struck me as a particularly patient person, especially when it came to his history of sexual exploits. He prepared dinner, which I would have felt guilty about had I not been aware of his love of cooking. After dinner, I took his hand and led him into my bedroom.

  “I take it today went well,” he whispered smugly in my ear.

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

  Lying on my back with my shirt unbuttoned and splayed open, I watched Martin trail kisses down my ribcage. “Shit.” I jerked slightly, wincing. He sat up immediately, confused and concerned. Tilting my head, I spotted the slight discoloration from Abelard’s first electric jolt. It had almost been forgotten since it didn’t bother me until now. I pressed my fingers against it. “Son of a bitch.” Not only did Abelard ruin that night, but now he was interfering with this one too.

  “Again, I hurt you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just a sore spot.” Sitting up, I tried to salvage the moment. I ran my hands down his chest, tracing my fingers along his toned abdomen until I reached the hem of his shirt, quickly divesting him of the garment and gently pushing him down on his back. “Maybe we just need to change things up.” I leaned down and kissed him, straddling his lap, as he gently brushed my hair back and over my shoulder. Unfortunately, this just made the entire situation worse.

  My lips traveled down to his neck and then to his shoulder, accidentally locating the scar and site of his upcoming surgery. Running my fingertips over it, I looked up to find his eyes. His gaze was on my chest. Instead of focusing on my cleavage or attempting to unfasten my bra, he stared at the tender, pink remnants of my electrical burns. Kissing him softly, I extricated myself from his lap.

  “Whatever happened to scars being a sexy turn-on?” he asked, defeated.

  “That’s a gender biased thing, but the damn battle wounds are a complete turn-off.” Nothing was going to happen tonight, and we both knew it. Considering Martin always talked a good game, I was surprised he let my still healing flesh bother him this much. Maybe he wasn’t as much of a playboy as his reputation would have me believe. “I’ll get you some ice for your shoulder.” I went into the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I opened two bottles, grabbed an ice pack, and went back into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed. His elbows rested on his knees as he rubbed his face.

  “Just so you know, this isn’t the way things normally go,” he tried to joke as I handed him the beer and sat beside him.

  “I was just about to tell you the same thing.” Resting my head against his good shoulder, I gently held the ice pack against the other. “When’s your surgery?

  “In three weeks. Then another six for rehab.”

  “Okay. Maybe we’ll slow things down until then.”

  We spent the rest of the night talking about everything from sports scores to economics. Time got away, and it was after midnight when I looked at the clock. Martin planned to head home, but it was late.

  “I can still offer you a weekend in bed,” I teased. “Except sleep won’t be a euphemism, it will be the sole activity.”

  He hedged, but I insisted.

  * * *

  “Please tell me that’s your phone,” I muttered, refusing to open my eyes.

  Martin rolled away from me as he reached over to retrieve the offending object. “It’s yours,” he mumbled, handing over the phone and wrapping his arm around me. He nuzzled my neck as I answered the call.

  “Parker,” I said softly, shutting my eyes.

  “I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night,” Ryan said urgently. I opened my eyes, immediately pulling away from Martin and sitting up. “One of Abelard’s aliases made it through airport security earlier this evening.”

  “What? When?” I was much more awake now.

  “He was booked on the midnight flight to JFK. Alex, I think he’s coming for you.” Ryan had never been this on edge before, and his tone sent chills down my spine.

  “Are you sure?” I pulled on a pair of jeans as we spoke.

  “I just got word. Delacroix called to inform us we were doing a fantastic job keeping a bloody eye on things. He’s notified Farrell, but I wanted to make sure you received a personal heads up.”

  “Thanks, Ryan. I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” Disconnecting, I was considering calling Nick when my phone rang again. As I answered, I buttoned my blouse. “Parker.” I picked up Martin’s clothes and tossed them to him. He was awake and confused. Get dressed, I mouthed.

  “I heard you might have a friend flying in. Farrell has a team on the way to the airport. I’m not sure if they’ll make it in time.” Mark relayed the news quickly. “We contacted the airport. Officers are standing by. We’ve spoken to the pilot and crew. According to them, Abelard’s seat is empty. He never checked in. We think he might have switched seats or tickets with someone else after he went through security, but there’s no way to tell until the plane lands. He might have taken a different flight. He could be anywhere.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m heading to the airport with a team of our own. If he’s there, I’ll make sure we stop him before he gets through customs. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.” Mark hung up.

  Martin watched me pace in front of my closet. I picked up his phone and tossed it to him. “Call Bruiser, tell him to meet you at your place. I need him to be on twenty-four seven until further notice.” My tone was serious, and Martin didn’t question me.

  Going into the kitchen, I called O’Connell. Please be working the night shift, I silently prayed.

  “Detective O’Connell speaking.”

  “Thank god. I need another favor.”

  “I am here to protect and serve. It’s a slow night. What can I do?”

  I filled him in on the current situation. “Martin’s here. Can you send a cruiser with a couple of uniforms to my place, pick him up, go back to the precinct, switch to an unmarked car, and take him home?” I was asking a lot, but I didn’t want to risk Abelard or someone he hired following Martin home.

  “Okay, I’ll send a couple of unis over, and Thompson will meet him here and drive him home.” From Nick’s tone, I knew he was suspicious about why Martin was at my apartment at four a.m. But he didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer an explanation.

  Martin emerged from my bathroom, dressed and coifed as if he didn’t just roll out of bed ten minutes ago. “What’s going on?” he asked as I fastened my shoulder holster and made sure my nine millimeter was loaded before clipping it into place.

  “Did you call Bruiser?” I found my thigh holster and hooked it around my leg with my backup side arm.

  “Yes
. Are you planning on raiding some tombs?” Martin asked, annoyed that I didn’t answer his question yet.

  “You never know.” I turned on the coffeemaker before sitting rigidly on the couch. “Ryan called. Abelard might be on his way here.” Martin wasn’t sure who I was referring to. “The man who tortured me.” I didn’t like using that word, but at the moment, my explanations needed to be succinct. His posture stiffened. “O’Connell’s sending a couple of uniformed officers to take you to the precinct where Detective Thompson will be waiting to drive you home. I need you to be safe and stay that way.”

  “Alex.” He was ready to protest.

  “Listen, James, I can’t be focused and alert if I’m worried about you.”

  “I hate it when you use my first name. Every time you do, it’s always bad news.”

  “True.” Since I had limited information, I needed to call Ryan back once things settled. “You know the drill. Don’t call. Don’t show up. Absolutely no contact.”

  “Alexis, you’re being ridiculous. You can’t just stay here alone, waiting for some sick motherfucker to come knocking. Do you have anyone watching your back?” He was on the couch next to me, rubbing his thumb absently against my cheek.

  “Hopefully, it won’t come to that. All of this is just precautionary. Mark called, and the OIO and Interpol are going to head Abelard off at the airport. This is just in case he manages to circumvent them. Plus, I don’t even know why he’s here or if he’s here. His resources are in France.” But we all knew why Abelard was on his way here. He was here for me.

  There was a knock at my door, followed by police officers announcing themselves. Martin kissed me roughly on the mouth. “I need you to be okay,” he said. His eyes were intense. I nodded and briefly wrapped my arms around him before answering the door.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, and Martin joined us at the door.

  “You’re not even letting them inside?” Nick teased from halfway down the hall.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.