“I better get started.” He gave my knee a pat. “Don’t worry. I’ll dream up something spectacular.”
Somehow, that didn’t give me a warm fuzzy.
***
I made it back just in time to freshen up before Jean-Charles filled my doorway. “Do you have a lot of time or a little,” he asked as he reached for me, circling my waist.
I glanced at Miss P, who lurked behind him. At her grin I said, “As much time as you want.”
“They would send out search parties if we took that much time.” He kissed me long and sweet.
Looping my arms around his neck, I wound my fingers in his hair where it curled over his collar, and reveled in his kiss. I could so get used to this.
Pulling back, he started to say something, then thought better of it, and kissed me again. This time deeper, taking my breath away and sending pulses of heat racing through me until I swore my knees would buckle.
Heat and desire… and something more. The Fates were rubbing my nose in it—they didn’t have to, I was paying attention. This one was special… I got it.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked, surprising myself that I actually mustered enough wind to give the words voice.
“March Bacchus. Do you know the place?” he asked, his lips playing against mine.
“Hmmm. Sounds divine. I have to be back by four, though.”
***
A “local’s” restaurant far from the tourist areas, Marchè Bacchus had started as a wine store and small café hidden in a residential development in Summerlin, overlooking a small man-made lake. Its reputation grew, along with the sophistication of its kitchen. After a recent expansion, the restaurant now attracted Vegas powerbrokers and hotel restaurateurs who flocked to partake of its casual and unique ambiance and its simple, yet elegant, menu. And it was just the sort of place a five-star chef would love to kick back in.
The owner greeted Jean-Charles with a mixture of the warmth one would have for an old friend and the respect one would have for royalty. He seated us at a two-top next to the lake, in front of an open outdoor fireplace. If Hollywood had ordered up a “romantic setting” they couldn’t have done any better.
As we sat, and the waiter shook out my napkin and laid it across my lap, my phone rang.
Teddie. Again.
This time I didn’t waffle—I punched the button rolling the call to voice mail, then turned the phone off. Miss P could handle any emergencies while I was busy having a life.
I glanced with disinterest at the menu the waiter handed me—who could think about food when there was an interesting Frenchman so close?
“What do you want?” Jean-Charles asked when the waiter departed, leaving us alone.
“Why don’t you order for me?” I laid the menu down on the table.
“Choosing food is like buying shoes—the style is subjective, but the fit is critical. I am not sure what you like.”
I like handsome Frenchmen who look at me as if I am beautiful and who treat me as if I am special, but since I already had one—and I doubted he was on the menu anyway—I said, “No rodents. No bugs—and, for the record, chocolate covering does nothing to enhance their palatability. No slimy things that crawl on the ground—escargot sound exotic, but a snail is still a snail. Have you seen what happens when you put salt on them?”
Amused, Jean-Charles nodded. “It is too bad you feel that way about escargots—they are brilliant here. Is that all?”
“Let me think. I’m not particularly gastronomically adventurous. No weird glands—that includes sweetbreads and Rocky Mountain oysters. Squid, but no ink. I’m not keen on intestines—but I can pretend when it comes to hot dogs. Other than that, I’m pretty good.”
The waiter reappeared with a bottle of red wine, which he presented to Jean-Charles, who nodded, then let the waiter do the uncorking.
“Oh, and I’m not that thrilled about coconut milk in anything other than a Piña Colada,” I concluded.
“Should I write this down?” Jean-Charles eyed me over the top of his menu. Even though the menu hid his mouth, I could see his smile in his baby blues.
“Wouldn’t hurt, especially if you plan on making a habit out of taking me to dine.”
“I’m rethinking that,” Jean-Charles teased as he took my hand. “You didn’t tell me you were so demanding,”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Not that I’m willing to admit.”
He ordered for both of us… in French. The waiter didn’t seem phased; either he spoke the language or our meal was going to be an adventure.
With all the formalities out of the way, Jean-Charles poured me a glass of wine. “I know it’s a school day, but a nice meal without a fine wine is like sex without love—momentarily pleasurable, but ultimately unsatisfying. Try it. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Since I agreed with his take on casual sex, I had no doubt I’d like the wine as well. “Very good,” I said after a whiff and a sip. “So how was your first night in your new home?”
“I didn’t sleep there.”
“Why not?”
“You were not there. Christophe was not there.” Jean-Charles patted his chest. “Without the heart, it is only a house…it is not a home.”
He was preaching to the choir.
Still holding my hand, he absentmindedly traced the lines on my palm. How could something so simple, be so sensual?
“Lucky, I have something to say.” He looked unsure as he glanced at me.
“Okay,” I tried to keep my heart from sinking, but failed. “You want to back off?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes. “Of course not.”
“What then?”
He took a deep breath. “I want you in my bed,” he continued. “I want to hold you all night. I want… ”
The waiter cleared his throat as he delivered our soup—French Onion—how could it have been anything else? “Sorry, Sir,” he said. His cheeks colored when his eyes met mine.
Jean-Charles gave me a wink as he moved the cheese crouton aside and took a tentative sip of the steaming broth. Nodding at the waiter, he said, “Brilliant, as usual. My compliments.”
“You were saying,” I prompted after the waiter beat a hasty retreat. Taking a sip of soup, I almost groaned in delight—authentically French, it was not the over-cheesed, over-salted, over–beef brothed concoction Americans had come to expect. Would a groan be bad form? Who knew? Maybe, to a chef, a groan might be like a belch in Japan—the highest form of compliment. I had some learning to do—how could I stay in the game if I didn’t know the rules? Jean-Charles would have to enlighten me…but later. I was pretty engrossed in his current topic.
Still holding my hand, Jean-Charles continued, “I want to give you pleasure, to fall asleep with you in my arms.”
“If you keep this up, we won’t make it to the main course.”
“You see my problem, then,” Jean-Charles said with a self-deprecating grin.
Swirling the wine in my glass and pretending to be fascinated with it, I took a few moments to think. What was best to do? Even though I was ready to jump in—he had me in a lather already—I knew that wasn’t the right approach. There were so many concerns, so many considerations—having a relationship with this man was going to be like negotiating peace between Palestine and Israel—the unexpected was waiting to bite me on the butt.
“Perhaps it will be best if we keep it slow,” I finally said. “We have to adjust to this new aspect of our working relationship. And then there is Christophe. I feel certain you don’t want to force your hand there. Wouldn’t it be better for him to meet me, hopefully like me, then spring our relationship—whatever it is—on him?”
“But I want…”
“I know.” I squeezed his hand, delighting in his touch. “Believe me, you and I are on the same page. But let’s get our sea legs first, okay? Then, when Christophe gets home, we’ll see where we are.”
“I cannot deny you are wise, even if I don’t want to accept your words. I am sometimes impulsive.”
At least we had one thing in common.
“Are you nervous at meeting my son?” Jean-Charles inquired with insight rarely encountered in the male of the species.
“Of course,” I admitted. “I’m nervous about all of this.”
He waved away my comment. “But you like children?”
“A world without children is a world without wonder and magic. I’m a big believer in magic.”
“You will like Christophe. I am sure of it.”
“Tell me about him.” We both dove into our soup before it got cold.
As Jean-Charles told me stories of his son, I watched his emotions parade across his face—pride and delight… unwavering love. While he talked, I searched for something, anything, about him I didn’t like. I was still searching when dessert arrived.
***
As I strolled through the lobby, basking in the afterglow of a delectable lunch—Tarte Provençale followed by cheese and fruit, then finished off by the most delectable Chocolate Pots de Crème—I realized that, in the last few days, work had taken a backseat to life. So this was how normal people felt all the time! I could get used to this! Of course, I was wise enough to note that most people didn’t have three-hour lunches with wine and a Frenchman—but then, most people didn’t work twenty-hour days either, so I refused to feel guilty.
After the most delicious kiss, Jean-Charles headed to work at the Burger Palais and I headed to my battle with the architects. All things considered, I liked his option far better than mine. I was getting a whole lot of the what-do-you-know-you’re-just-the-boss’s-daughter routine from the elder of the two designers—it was time to cut the guy off at the knees, but I didn’t want to lose my smile.
So, I started thinking about Dimitri’s riddle…joy. What did it mean? How the heck could anybody find joy in all this mess? Pushing open the stairwell door, heading toward my office, a stray thought stopped me dead.
Could joy be a who rather than a what?
Chapter Seventeen
FLASH answered on the first ring.
“Girlfriend,” she said, “you cut a wide swath. Teddie takes a dive and you turn right around and start parlez-vousing with a certain hunkaliscious Frenchman. Dane’s got a serious case of the down-in-the-mouths, and I’ve still got my line out trolling for a story. I want to be you.”
The Dane comment hurt but I didn’t know what to do about it—I’d been clear about no promises. “Don’t be hasty—I’m on my way to disembowel an architect.”
“You get to have all the fun.”
“In all your research into Dimitri Fortunoff, Danilov, and Area 51 have you found any mention of a woman named Joy?”
“No.”
“If you do, I’ll throw some of the fun your way.”
“I’ll play,” Flash said. As if she could’ve turned me down! “Joy who?”
“What, you think I’m going to make this easy?”
***
Miss P still manned her desk when I pushed through the door. “Don’t you need to go home and get ready for dinner? As I understand it, The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock is taking you out for a five-star evening.”
“Jeremy can’t make it,” she stated flatly. She didn’t sound upset, but with her, it was hard to tell—unlike her boss, she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve.
“How come?”
“He’s working,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know that, but I thought he was going to call one of his guys to be Carl’s sentry for the night.” I refused to feel like a heel—Jeremy and I had this all worked out.
“He decided Carl was ready to open up to him and changing the guard right now would set him back.” Miss P finally smiled at me. “Look, this is important. I have birthdays every year. Besides, it doesn’t matter when we celebrate as long as everyone is there.”
“Even though we have planned it for Saturday, I’m not sure we’ll be able to pull it off, all things considered. When this Dimitri thing blows over, we’ll pick a time, okay?”
“Speaking of which, Romeo is on his way up. He didn’t sound good.”
***
The young detective didn’t look good, either.
Dark circles under his eyes, his hair as disheveled as his clothes, a frown instead of his normal grin, Romeo stopped in front of me. “We found Jenkins.”
“Where?”
“Wandering in the desert. The guy was dehydrated, hallucinating. It was lucky he stumbled over the boundary for Area 51, tripping all their sensors, or we may never have found him… alive anyway.”
I sank down into a chair against the window as I stared at him. “What?”
Romeo parked his butt on a corner of Miss P’s desk. Miss P stared at both of us, her eyes as big as saucers.
“The Feds turned him over to Lincoln County. Flight for Life took him to Sunrise Hospital.” Romeo ran a hand over his eyes, as he leaned his head back for a moment and took a deep breath. “He’s going to make it, but he still wasn’t making a whole lot of sense when I saw him.”
“How did he end up wandering around by himself in the desert?” I asked.
“He was in pretty rough shape—whether somebody assaulted him or he’d fallen—he couldn’t remember. The only thing he kept repeating over and over was ‘Carl is the key.’ Do you think he was talking about the Carl you know?”
“Makes sense.” My mind whirled. Everybody seemed to think Carl was the key. The key to what?
“It’d be nice to know if Carl was anywhere near Rachel last night,” Romeo mused.
“Finally!” I threw up my hands. “A question to which I can actually provide an answer. Jeremy Whitlock has been watching him around the clock.” I glanced at the clock—Jeremy was due to check in within the hour. “He can give us Carl’s whereabouts for the last twenty-four hours. And he should be warned that someone has upped the ante.”
“Don’t worry,” Miss P said. “Jeremy can handle whatever comes his way.”
“Yes, but it’s easier to do when you know it’s coming.” I turned to Romeo. “I know I’m shooting for the stars here, but do you know if Jenkins figures in our crazy little Dimitri drama? And if so, would you have perhaps an inkling as to how?”
“I ran Jenkins just like you asked,” Romeo said, his voice flat as if he was running through a recitation of statistics. “He has the whole pedigree you’d expect and enough letters after his name to use up most of the alphabet. His job history didn’t put him anywhere near the others.”
I leaned my head back against the window and sighed. I don’t know why I was disappointed that Romeo hadn’t made a connection—it’s not like any of the facts we knew already added up. Eventually though, something was going to have to connect. “So you didn’t find anything,” I stated with finality.
“Well, not in the regular check, but since everyone seemed to have some military connection, I ran his name through that filter.” Romeo gave me a lopsided grin as he milked the moment.
“And?” I tried to frown as I looked up at him, but it was hard to pull off when I felt the flush of hope rise in my chest.
“He’s getting retirement pay from the Air Force.”
“You didn’t say he was in the Air force.”
Romeo leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “According to his records, he wasn’t.”
The ticking of the clock on the wall, and my heartbeat, were the only sounds puncturing the silence as I processed this new tidbit. “Somebody erased part of his background,” I announced, half-rhetorically.
“It would seem so,” Romeo agreed.
“That begs the questions: Who? and why?” I glanced at Romeo. “You wouldn’t happen to know his pay-grade, would you?”
Romeo’s eyes sparked, as if I’d asked the right question, made the right connection. So he was the teacher now? “His retirement pay is at two-star flag rank.”
“A h
igh-ranking muckety-muck. Interesting.” Hands together, elbows on my knees, I steepled my fingers. “How did you get looped in on his disappearance and eventual recovery?”
“This morning, after you told me Jenkins didn’t come back from Rachel with the others, I made a few inquiries. He wasn’t registered at that motel….”
“The Little A’ Le’ Inn?” I prompted.
“That’s the one,” Romeo said. “ I’ve got a friend in the Lincoln County sheriff’s office—we went to the academy together. Even though technically Dr. Jenkins wasn’t a missing person, I put the bug in the guy’s ear. I had a feeling. I can’t explain it.”
“Like hearing voices?”
“Yeah.” The kid gave me a very tired rendition of a sheepish grin. “I didn’t want to say it like that. I figured you might think I’ve got a big hole in my screen door.”
I had been half-teasing. But this whole thing was screwy—a lot of people believed in all this mind-bending hocus-pocus, and where there’s smoke…
Heck, it even had me looking over my shoulder, swearing someone was lurking in the shadows. Both Danilov and Crazy Carl talked of voices and being connected. Molly seemed to weave in and out like mist through the forest. Zoom-Zoom swore he could connect with our dearly departed. Bart Griffin had an axe to grind with the Air force, and Dr. Jenkins had a slick mind-reading trick. Everyone had a screw loose… including me, but none of it provided any insight into my missing magician.
“I’m about ready to ask Dr. Zewicki if he could conjure up a dead woman, presumably named Joy—although I’m still guessing at this point—and talk to her. I bet she could clear this whole thing up,” I announced, only half-joking.
“Couldn’t hurt. Some departments are actually using psychics to solve crimes,” Romeo added, sounding as close to the end of his rope as I was. “Zewicki was the last guy Jenkins remembers talking to before his death march into the desert. When you see the astronaut, let me know—we’re looking for him as well, but he hasn’t turned up.”
“I can’t prove it, but I have a feeling psychics are part of our crime…not part of the solution.” Discouragement nipped at my heels. “If someone actually knocked Jenkins over the head, maybe looking at the tapes of folks returning on the buses last night might tell you something.”
So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 29
